Renascence
by OmniHelix
Summary: Two years after Finn's passing, Rachel meets someone who helps her discover that the human capacity for love is infinite.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: As "I Came Upon A Child of God" winds down, I introduce this, my personal take on how the Finchel story ends. I refuse to accept that it ends with one character passing away, leaving the other alone and heartbroken forever. That would make a mockery of what they meant to each other. Those of us left behind in this world do heal, and can love again as fully and intensely as they once did, because I believe the human capacity for love knows no limits. **_

_**It's a Finchel story because Finn's gentle spirit permeates it. **_

_**I hope it gives you peace. **_

_**I neither own Glee nor its characters. I do own the characters I have created, however.**_

_**XXXXxxxxxx**_

She was dancing around the kitchen, making Saturday morning coffee, to the Grateful Dead's live version of the blues standard "Walking Blues", hips swinging to the irresistible groove, singing happily along in the lovely morning sunshine that streamed through the window:

_**Woke up this morning, felt around for my shoes  
Thats when I knew I had them old walking blues  
I woke up this morning, felt around, felt around for my shoes  
Thats when I knew I had them old, mean old walking blues**_

It was impossible to stay still, even when she had to stand at the counter to hold the skim milk pitcher under the steamer.

"I have to admit, you sound much better than Jerry Garcia," Kurt said, from behind her. "Honestly, though, I never expected Rachel Berry to turn into a Deadhead."

She turned her head and smiled. "That's Bob Weir singing, not Jerry Garcia. C'mon, Kurt, it's a great song. And I'm not a Deadhead, at least, not like Finn was."

"Yeah, I know", Kurt said softly. He watched her begin brewing the espresso portion. The machine, an expensive Italian one Rachel had bought for them, wheezed noisily.

"How does it feel to be getting up early again?"

She looked pensive. "It feels…good. Even if I am unemployed!" The twinkle in her eyes and impish grin eased any concern. "I think being a student full time will be good for me. I can tap into my old college fund again, and keep the money I made performing for when I start auditioning later on."

She had saved most of her considerable salary from _Funny Girl's_ two-year run. That, and the Tony nomination (but not a win) would probably guarantee her success on Broadway when she returned. But for now, Rachel Berry was going back to school.

"Do you think kids will give me a hard time?" she asked.

"You mean, like they used to?"

"No. Do you think they'll resent me? I mean, should I tell Carmen not to consider me for showcases, since I have all this experience now?"

"You know, the Rachel Berry before _Funny Girl_ would never even have considered that."

That brought a thoughtful look to her face. A softness.

"I'm not that girl anymore, Kurt."

Along with the softness he saw hard-won happiness, too.

"I know."

He and Santana were glad Rachel was off the Broadway schedule. When she was performing eight shows a week, they only saw her on Monday evenings, her one night off. She made sure to cook them dinner that night, in gratitude for the dinners they left warming for her the rest of the week. Weekdays she would sleep until ten, waking up long after he and Santana had left for work and school. And they always made sure Rachel slept till at least eleven, and sometimes noon, on Saturday and Sunday, as the weariness of the week built up, and she needed extra energy for the two shows on Sunday.

Now that her schedule was better, they could finish working on her weight.

"I'm making lunch today, Rachel. Exotic, gooey, grilled cheese sandwiches, and I want you to eat every bite. I even—" Kurt winced, "—bought you some beer."

He hadn't been sure if buying her the beer was a good idea. Neither he nor Santana drank the stuff, and, as a result, Rachel normally didn't either. It was something that she had only done with Finn, and for the longest time Kurt thought she did it only to please him. But one day she had confided that she liked decent, hoppy beer like Pilsner Urquell, especially after a grueling performance. "It has electrolytes!" Apparently, some of the cast drank it after the show. She didn't buy it for herself, however, and Kurt wasn't sure if that was because of the association with his brother; still, he told himself, she _had _been steadily emerging from her grief, so he decided to try it. Something had to be done to get her little tummy back. She had been too thin for too long.

"Oh really? Yum!"

Her eyes held a genuine twinkle. There was light in them again. And life.

**XXXxxx **

Walking to class was a different experience after having been on Broadway. For one thing, she felt like Kurt's little sister as he escorted her to her first class. He seemed to know everybody, and, she noticed warmly, they seemed to like him. He dropped her off and kissed the top of her head, making her giggle.

"Now run along and learn something," he said, "And if anyone's mean to you, let me know."

"I love you, Kurt," she whispered.

Rachel went into each class assuming she didn't know anything—that way she wouldn't appear to be a know-it-all. It didn't change the fact that, after roll was called almost everyone knew who she was. Soon she knew which kids were waiting for her to make a mistake, and those who looked to her expertise in some kind of awe. One instructor apparently didn't get Carmen's memo, and kept asking Rachel her opinion. For the most part, however, it was enjoyable.

A few days into the week, she was walking to the student lounge after her next-to-last class, when a fellow student caught up with her in the hall. His name was Ron, and wanted to be an actor. He pulled alongside her.

"Hey, Rachel! Heading for the lounge before class?"

She nodded, smiling. Ron was tall, with dark, curly hair. The two of them sat together in class, and had done one improv together.

"Mind if I join you? I kinda need to unwind after Cassie's dance class."

Rachel laughed. "Sure! I know exactly how you feel." They chose two armchairs which were tilted towards each other.

"I thought I would take dancing to round me out better as an actor," Ron said, "but the class is full of musical theatre majors who can already dance rings around me, and Cassie is brutal."

"What name did she give you?"

He laughed. "It's really weird. I had to look it up. She called me 'Stanley Goodspeed'".

"Wow, that _is _weird. Who's Stanley Goodspeed?"

"It's a character Nicolas Cage played in the movie 'The Rock'".

She looked at Ron carefully. His dark eyes and matching eyebrows had a hang-dog, sleepy quality to them, like Cage's. Made sense. "Yeah…I can see the rationale behind it. At least it's not too insulting."

"Why, did she give you a name, if you don't mind my asking?"

Rachel could laugh at it now. "Within minutes of my first day at NYADA she called me 'David Schwimmer'." At Ron's blank look she touched her nose.

"Ah, the _schnoz_, I see." Ron laughed with her.

"She rode me like you wouldn't believe. Everybody thought she wanted to get me drummed out of NYADA. "

"You're kidding, right?"

"Well, it turned out she actually saw potential in me, and decided tough love would help me become a success."

"I guess it worked," Ron grinned.

Rachel shook her head. "She had no idea what she was talking about, and had no idea how to motivate people. Still doesn't."

"What motivated you, then?"

She could tell he was sincerely interested. And she liked him. He didn't look at her in that awful, predatory way some of the men she knew from the show did. And she felt like spending some pleasant time in the company of a man. So she just asked him:

"Look, why don't we talk more over coffee? Are you free after the next class?"

"Yes, I am. Sounds good." He looked pleased. She smiled.

"Excellent."

It might be fun. Maybe some decent conversation.

"Let's go over last night's assignment," he suggested.

She liked that.

**XXXXxxxxxx**

He held the door of the diner open for her**. **The Arabica diner wasn't full, like the Starbucks where all the NYADA students hung out, even though it was only two blocks further south. Ron offered, but did not insist, to "buy the first round", including the banana bread she ordered for both of them as well, which gave him points in her book. She accepted graciously, and they sat at the last two counter seats on the left.

"This coffee is great!" Ron enthused, and Rachel explained it was Kenyan AA, the diner's specialty, although it also offered Ethiopian Sidamo and Tanzanian Peaberry as well. "All East African, interesting," he noted, impressing her.

He was from Santa Fe, New Mexico, the only son of two well-known (and fairly well-off) local artists. She liked his tall good looks, and understated way of dressing: black shirt and dark trousers.

"You said Cassie didn't really motivate you. Didn't you just itch to prove her wrong? "

"That was _her_ rationale, and I understand why she tried to find every button of mine to push, just to get me to react the wrong way in class rather than in the real world. And yes, I did want to prove her wrong, but anybody who has struggled and succeeded in getting into NYADA has the grit and determination to want to do that. It's no great teaching revelation." She snorted. "I expected more originality."

"So how _did_ you find the motivation to win the Winter Showcase as a freshman, and then win a lead role in a major Broadway show soon after that?"

A reasonable question.

"I've always been ambitious," she said, then paused to chew some banana bread. "_So_ good". He smiled.

"I also had friends who believed in me, who didn't let me give in to doubt." She remembered them helping her at that first _Funny Girl _audition. "And I had a fiancée who knew me better than any other human being on the planet, who inspired me to reach for the stars without losing my humanity." There. She said it without crying.

"Fiancée?" Ron looked surprised, and she caught him involuntarily glancing at her left hand (surely he noticed a missing ring before?).

"He died," she said. "Soon after I got the part of Fanny Brice."

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. That's awful."

She looked down for just a moment, replying, "Thanks."

"I can't imagine how you could ever get over something like that."

How many times had she heard people say that?

"I don't think you ever get over it," she said. "It's something you just learn to live with."

His eyes flicked away from her for an instant.

"Yeah… I guess so."

The conversation stalled, just for a beat. She felt something had changed.

"So…What motivated you to want to get into NYADA, to be an actor?"

He was chewing on some banana bread, pondering his answer, when she noticed that his eyes made less contact than before; he seemed more easily distracted.

"It's just something I've always wanted to do, for as long as I can remember."

She could relate to that.

"Do you have any role models? Nick Cage, for instance?"

He _did_ notice her impish grin, and laughed.

"Olivier."

"Wow, and I was thinking _I _was the ambitious one."

He shrugged.

"Streisand, Olivier. "Aim high, sez me."

"I like a man with ambition." She had decided to give him an opportunity, then sipped her coffee to gauge his response.

They had finished the banana bread, and the waitress approached them, asking if they wanted more coffee. Rachel could tell he was not going to ask for more.

"I'm good," he said, standing up, with an apologetic look. "Rachel, I've got an ungodly amount of work yet to do, and should get back, I'm sorry."

"I'd like some more coffee," Rachel informed the waitress, and to Ron said, with a smile, "I'm going to meet my roommate Kurt here later."

Ron looked relieved, she imagined because he may have worried about her needing an escort to the nearby Canal Street Station (he lived in the dorms). She didn't want him to feel obligated.

"Thanks for the coffee and company, Ron. See you in class?"

"Sure." He smiled and left. She was finishing her coffee when Kurt texted, asking when she thought she'd be done. She texted back, saying she was alone now, and he texted that he'd be right there.

"That was fast," Kurt said, walking with her to the station. "Not your type?"

"Oh no," Rachel laughed, "He's good-looking, talented and ambitious. What's not to like?"

Kurt gazed at her intently. "Are you saying he ended it early?"

She shrugged and waited until they had negotiated themselves around a particularly knotted, slower group of people on the sidewalk.

"He lost interest the second I mentioned Finn." Rachel saw Kurt getting angry, and she patted his arm. "No, it's okay. He's a young college student, and I think he just decided he didn't want to get involved with a complicated girl." She gave him a resolute look. "I'm not going to act as if Finn never existed—ever."

"Good for you, Rachel." He kissed her forehead.

She held his arm tighter, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

_**A/N2: Lyrics are from "Walkin Blues", by Robert Johnson**_


	2. Chapter 2

She didn't know _why_ it was so difficult for some people to respect other people's time. The reservation form clearly stated—she had it right here in her hand—that this room was reserved for Rachel Berry from 2 until 2:50 pm. It was now 2 pm exactly, and she could see someone in the room still, sitting at the piano, absorbed in writing some music down.

Rachel paused at the door before saying something. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, her need to practice some dance moves was secondary to what could be the next Sondheim getting that one line down perfectly. Not wanting to be responsible for that kind of travesty, she stood and waited.

Sunlight was streaming through the high windows of the room, and as it happened, fell directly on the piano and the man sitting at it. He was small and compact, with a sandy mop of clean curly hair that shone in the sun, and round, horn rim glasses. She immediately noticed how out of place he looked at NYADA—he wore a simple, open collared white shirt and jeans, with tan desert boots. Nobody dressed like that here. Curious.

He stopped writing, but instead of looking like he was starting to pack up, the man stared up at the ceiling, as if looking for inspiration. Enough. She stepped in the room and cleared her throat.

"Excuse me—" she began, but stopped when he jumped up in surprise and turned around. A look at his watch.

"Oh my god! I am so sorry!" He began gathering his music.

Rachel crossed the room and lay her bag on the bench by another window.

"I must have lost track of time…"

"It's okay," she told him, "It looked like you were deep in creative activity, and I was reluctant to interrupt that." Walking over to the piano, she extended her hand. "I'm Rachel."

"Rachel Berry, right?" At her amused look he blushed. She noticed his eyes were a startlingly deep shade of blue. "That's what it said on the Reservation System. It's an honor to meet you." He shook her hand. "Tom Foley."

The name was familiar. "You're in NYADA's composer program, aren't you?" He nodded. There were only two composers enrolled in the program.

Her curiosity got the better of her. "Were you composing when I interrupted you?"

"You mean intruding on your reserved time?" She chuckled, but appreciated his acknowledgment of the _faux pas_. "I was trying—without much success, mind you-to come up with a bridge to a song."

He was finished packing up, and seemed eager to leave. Perhaps he was truly embarrassed.

"The room's yours, Rachel. It looks like we have it reserved for the same times for a few weeks, so I'll set the alarm on my phone next time."

"It's fine, don't worry about it. Maybe next week you can show me that bridge."

"Well, I'd better have it done by then, or start looking for another line of work. Take care." She waved as he rushed out.

**XXXxxxx**

"Good Lord, woman, can't you have dinner on the table when I get home?"

"You never appreciate anything I do for you," Rachel whined, laughing, and Santana, just home from work, chuckled. "The Golden Lotus is delivering in ten."

"Watching you slave over a hot phone turns me on, baby" Santana said, as Rachel finished setting the table—for two. "Where's Kurt?"

"He's out with Isabel. He said he'd call if they found any clothes we'd like."

"Isn't it great having someone who knows our sizes and our colors by heart?" Santana poured herself some wine, curiously watching Rachel sip a beer. "I still can't believe you drink that stuff. It just seems so…_un-_Berry."

"Why?"

"Well, when you said you started drinking it with Finn back in high school, I tried imagining you having a beer and wearing those insane knee socks, and my head exploded."

"You'd be shocked at what I did in those knee socks."

"So those rumors _were _true!" Santana raised her glass. "_Respect._" She grew thoughtful.

"He loved the way you dressed, Rachel," she said, shaking her head. "It had to be one of the sweetest things about him." Rachel clinked her bottle against Santana's glass.

"Finn was definitely a connoisseur of sexy schoolgirl librarian chic, that's for sure."

The two women could now reminisce without pain, or even many tears; their lives in the loft had moved on in some ways. Rachel didn't keep Finn's "New York" shaving gear in the bathroom, and Santana could now say "Frankenteen" without crying. His name was brought up in conversations all of the time without sadness. Even though he hadn't spent much time in the loft, it was as if his spirit had infused the wood and brick, making it feel that he wasn't really gone, just silent now, and unobtrusive.

Rachel no longer slept every night in his gray McKinley Football t-shirt. After six months, Kurt worried that it would wear out, so he convinced Rachel to store it one of those plastic bags with all of the air sucked out, tucked in the bottom of her underwear drawer.

They held Finn Pancake Saturdays every now and then, competing to see if any of them could ever beat Finn's original record of twenty-five in one sitting. He remained unbeaten by a wide margin, though each suspected the others of deliberately throwing the contest.

Slowly, they came to celebrate him.

The food arrived.

"So how's school?" Santana dipped a spring roll in fiery Chinese mustard. "Did Stanley Goodspeed ever wise up and realize what he could have had?"

"We're just...classmates, geez." He hadn't tried to get any closer, and Rachel was content to keep it that way.

"Any other hot men you haven't told me about? I mean, you're Rachel "I Was Fanny Brice" Berry, for Christ's sake. You should have been well-laid by now, instead of eating Chinese at home with me on a Friday night."

"Well, I did meet one of the two students in NYADA's composer program today. Does that count?"

"That depends. Is he hot?"

She thought about that mop of curly hair, shining in the sunlight, and those blue eyes.

"He wasn't bad looking, but was in a hurry."

Santana gave an exaggerated sigh.

"We're never going to get you laid, girl. Say! Do you have enough cash to call Brokeback Boy? You know, to hold you over? "

"I didn't need cash the last time. Why should I need it now?"

To live with Santana was to be exposed to a continual barrage of often outrageously funny banter. But Rachel could be just as funny when she wanted to, and the two of them started riffing.

"Back then you thought he was a sexually athletic cater-waiter. Now that you know he's a _professional_, it's gonna cost you, baby."

"Professional? He's not even on Angie's List."

"Yeah he is, you've just got to look under 'Pipe Layers'."

And so on. In reality, Brody had managed to graduate without anyone knowing about his activities, and was actually working in a crappy off-Broadway play. He had texted Rachel when he heard Finn had passed away, simply offering condolences. They even ran into each other at an after party for _Funny Girl_ when he was dating the daughter of one of the crew. He seemed content, and asked how she was holding up, which Rachel appreciated. Lately, though, when she found herself sexually frustrated, she regretted the fact that he had been the last person she had sex with. She fantasized that it was actually Finn, if only because she had been his last.

She and Santana chose a movie—not a musical—to watch together, and , just before getting into bed, Rachel prayed, as she tried to do every night, for the soul of Finn Hudson.

**XXXXxxxx **

Rachel could hear music emanating from the rehearsal room. No problem, . she was early this time. She listened before entering.

Tom was playing a simple, mournful melody, singing along to it, but too low for her to hear. He kept stopping and repeating one line, and when she poked her head into the doorway, she saw him crossing something out and rewriting. He started again.

When the alarm on his phone went off, she stepped into the room. He looked up, smiling.

"That sounded lovely. Is it the song in search of a bridge?"

"Yep. And the bridge still hasn't gelled. May I show it to you next time?" He sighed.

She laughed. "Sure, that's fine."

This time all he had to do was file the one sheet of music into a folder and he was ready to leave. But something was obviously bothering him.

"May I make a confession?"

"A confession?" She didn't understand.

"Yeah. Yesterday I was kind of being a fanboy, and told someone that I had met you, and he told me some things that I wasn't sure you wanted me—or anybody here-to know."

She knew what it was.

"Let me guess—that I had a fiancé, my high school sweetheart, who died right after I was cast for Funny Girl?"

He looked relieved, and nodded.

"It's true, and it isn't a secret. His name was Finn Hudson."

"That is sad. I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"I'll keep you and Finn in my thoughts tonight."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Tonight? In your prayers?"

He gave her an enigmatic look. "I guess you could call it prayers, in my do-it-yourself Buddhist sort of way."

"You're a Buddhist?"

"Not exactly."

All of a sudden, Rachel didn't want to practice. She wanted to talk remembrance.

"Do you have time to explain? If you want to, that is? I don't feel like dancing right now."

"Sure, I guess." He walked over and closed the rehearsal room door, then walked over to the mat and sat upon it, cross-legged. He was wearing an ivory colored-peasant shirt over his jeans. It felt like he came from another era. She joined him.

He was from San Clemente, California, on the coast just south of Los Angeles. His parents were doctors.

"They met in Cambodia in 1975, working for Doctors Without Borders, and ran a clinic in the northwest, near the Thai border, for refugees of the Khmer Rouge. My mother is French. They were married in the jungle by a refugee village mayor and a Buddhist monk."

"What a story," Rachel said, charmed and impressed. He smiled.

"Anyway, needless to say, they lost a lot of patients, to disease and violence, and they would say a little Buddhist prayer for the soul of the departed, wishing it freedom from the cycle of reincarnation."

"The idea is to _not_ be reincarnated, isn't it?" She remembered that from comparative religions class. Finn had made her laugh by saying Sue Sylvester was going to be reincarnated as a dung beetle. He laughed even harder when she pointed out to him that the Ancient Egyptians worshiped dung beetles.

"Right. So, I say that prayer for anybody I know of that is recently deceased. I'll be sure to say it tonight for Finn."

"Can you recite it for me now?" she asked, touched.

_**Om mani padme hum **_

"Short and sweet." He gave her a grin.

"It's lovely. Thank you for that."

"My pleasure."

"I say a prayer for Finn every night I can," Rachel said. "I'm a Jew, and those first few months, I was a mess. Finn died alone, and I feared his soul would not find rest, so I went to our family rabbi. I left a charitable donation in Finn's name, and Rabbi Abravanel gave me a sweet prayer, _El male rachamim_, that the Ashkenazi Jews use at funerals. Would you like to hear it?"

Tom looked humbled. "I'd be honored."

She closed her eyes, and began chanting in Hebrew:

אֵל מָלֵא רַחֲמִים שׁוֹכֵן בַּמְּרוֹמִים_**, **_הַמְצֵא מְנוּחָה נְכוֹנָה עַל כַּנְפֵי הַשְּׁכִינָה בְּמַעֲלוֹת קְדוֹשִׁים וטְהוֹרִים כְּזוֹהַר הָרָקִיעַ מַזְהִירִים אֶת נִשְׁמַת פלוני בן פלוני שֶׁהָלַךְ לְעוֹלָמוֹ_**, **_בַּעֲבוּר שֶׁנָדְבוּ צְדָקָה בְּעַד הַזְכָּרַת נִשְׁמָתוֹ_**, **_לָכֵן בַּעַל הָרַחֲמִים יַסְתִּירֵהוּ בְּסֵתֶר כְּנָפָיו לְעוֹלָמִים_**, **_וְיִצְרֹר בִּצְרוֹר הַחַיִּים אֶת נִשְׁמָתוֹ_**, **_ה_**' **_הוּא נַחֲלָתוֹ_**, **_וְיָנוּחַ בְּשָׁלוֹם עַל מִשְׁכָּבוֹ_**, **_וְנֹאמַר אָמֵן_**:**_

Then she translated into English:

_**God, full of mercy, who dwells in the heights, provide a sure rest upon the Divine Presence's wings, within the range of the holy, pure and glorious, whose shining resemble the sky's, to the soul of Finn Hudson, son of Christopher and Carole Hudson, for a charity was given to the memory of his soul. Therefore, the Master of Mercy will protect him forever, from behind the hiding of his wings, and will tie his soul with the rope of life. The Everlasting is his heritage, and he shall rest peacefully upon his lying place. Amen**_

When she finished, she was beaming, her eyes full of light.

"The Everlasting is his heritage," Tom mused, "That's just beautiful."

"I try and say it every night, but I think it's more for my own comfort now than for his."

"It's a way to keep him close. That's important."

Rachel nodded in agreement.

"Tom thank you for this talk. And don' worry about the story. Like I said, it's no secret."

"I'm glad. I felt terrible," he said, and got up. "I'd better go—that bridge won't write itself."

"Okay," Rachel said, waving. "See you later."

The quiet in the room for the rest of the hour was like a balm to her own soul.


	3. Chapter 3

She sat in Washington Square Park, eating her lunch, feeling low. Finn's birthday was in one week, and she had, almost instinctively, begun to think about planning the celebration. The year before, she had been in such emotional pain that it didn't seem to register. But now, when she could think more clearly, and felt that maybe some healing had occurred, September 15th loomed, threatening to open the wound afresh. When Finn was alive, the week before his birthday would see Rachel immersed in a frenzy of baking, and shopping for that one special gift (and several little silly ones as well). He sometimes told her she didn't have to make such a fuss, but she knew he secretly appreciated just how much she loved doing this for him.

She didn't know how to approach his birthday this year. Chewing her sandwich, Rachel was lost in melancholy, and barely noticed the runner stop in front of her bench.

"Rachel?" She looked up. It was Tom, in a singlet and shorts, covered in sweat, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Hi," she replied, trying to smile. "I'll be all right." Normally, she wouldn't have wanted to discuss something as intimate as this with anyone, but there was something about Tom's look of honest, unthreatening concern that made her trust him. And at that moment, the thought of talking to someone appealed to her, because she felt fresh out of ideas on what to do. "Finn's birthday is coming up, and it brings me down, that's all. I—I don't want to interrupt your run over it."

He sat down on the bench. "I'm almost done. It's only a few blocks more. So, if you need to talk… I'm just not sure if I can help, though."

She didn't understand why, but Rachel just started in. "I don't know, it's just that when Finn was alive, I used to make his whole birthday week an event. I baked him cookies, and banana bread…" The thought of his expressions when he enjoyed those treats brought a smile to her face, along with the welling of tears. "And I'd give him stupid little presents all week, then a special one on the day." She looked at Tom, beseechingly. "But now, all I can think of doing is order fresh flowers for his grave. It seems so…impersonal. And wrong. I don't want him to think I've forgotten how special his birthday was to me."

She half-expected Tom to search for an excuse to leave; after all, they barely knew each other. And she certainly didn't expect him to actually come up with an idea.

But he did.

For a few moments, he leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, head down, lost in thought.

"You could write him a tanka," he said, finally, straightening up.

"A what?"

"Tanka—it's a form of Japanese poetry. You know what a haiku is, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, three lines, seventeen syllables total."

"Yep. A tanka is a haiku with two extra lines of seven syllables each. The whole thing has 5 lines, in a five-seven-five-seven-seven syllable pattern."

"Why a tanka and not a haiku?"

"Well, in ancient Japan, lovers often communicated through tanka. What could be more personal than a poem written to him from the woman he loved?"

She looked dubious. She had never even written a haiku, let alone a tanka before. Then she felt his hand on her arm.

"It was just a suggestion," he said, smiling, "And if my opinion isn't enough, maybe Shakespeare can help convince you. After all, he knew everything:

_**Give sorrow words.**_

_**The grief that does not speak**_

_**Whispers the o'erfraught heart,**_

_**And bids it break.**_

She stared at him. His feelings did not seem to be hurt by her cool reaction to his suggestion. And now he was standing up and stretching. In his running clothes, she could actually see how well he was built for the first time. Tom wasn't buff like Brody, nor was he rangy and lean like Finn. His arms and legs had some definition, though, she noticed, idly, then realized she hadn't said anything.

"I'm sorry… that was an...interesting suggestion. Thanks." She smiled a bit more.

"You're welcome," he said, adding, "One more thing: classical haiku and tanka involve imagery from nature, and an unusual or surprise ending or image." She nodded.

"You should probably finish your run—I don't want you to cool down too much and cramp up."

"Yeah." He turned to go. "Are you sure you're okay? I can walk back to NYADA with you if you need me to." There was no hint of anything other than genuine concern.

"Thank you, no, I'll be fine." She smiled, actually feeling a bit better.

"Okay then! Take care, Rachel." And he was gone. She watched him weave through the lunch crowd at the park, and slowly disappear.

On the train home, after her afternoon classes, she thought about what Tom had said, but didn't mention it to Kurt. By the time she went to bed, Rachel was convinced the poem wasn't a good idea—she seemed to lack the proper kind of inspiration. Such a concise poem needed vivid imagery, and she couldn't come up with the idea for any, especially since Tom said it traditionally involved nature.

It wasn't until 3 am, when she awoke from a vivid dream, did Finn's birthday present come to her. They had been in her parent's garden, that one perfect summer after they met, before she knew what true heartbreak was. And he was smiling, that wonderfully quirky half-smile of his, and waved to her as he walked out the gate, as if he was just going home. She wasn't sad, waving back at him, because then she knew he would always return, and when she awoke, she knew what to give him for his birthday.

Getting her laptop and turning on the reading lamp, Rachel began to write.

**XXXxxxx **

The next day Rachel found Tom slumped over the piano in the rehearsal room, asleep. She grinned at the little pool of drool, and the scattered pages of music. She shook his shoulder, and stood back as he groggily came to his senses.

"Rachel?" he asked, weakly, then sat up. "Oh shit! I'm sorry!" He started gathering his music. Rachel stopped him with her hand on his arm.

"Relax, it's okay. Besides, I want to tell you something."

"What?" Tom sat back down on the piano bench, making a face at his drool.

"I took your advice and wrote a tanka for Finn's birthday!"

He looked pleased. "That's great! Did it help?"

"I actually think it did, and wanted to thank you. Would you like to hear it?"

He surprised her by shaking his head.

"It's far too intimate a thing for me to hear," he said. "I'm just glad it made you feel better." He could see her begin to protest, so he held up his hand. "Okay, but only if you really want me to hear it."

"I need to know if it sounds okay," Rachel said. "Your opinion is important here."

"Rachel, how could your thoughts about someone you loved so much not be okay?"

"_Tom_," she implored.

"Okay. Lay it on me."

She pulled a piece of paper from her bag—he could see it had been written over and crossed out many times. And she read it to him:

_**I tend this garden,**_

_**Prune these trees, feed the flowers**_

_**How you loved the rain**_

_**Orchard mist at dawn becomes**_

_**The memory of your smile **_

He surprised her again when his mouth opened in a silent "wow".

"It's gorgeous, Rachel. Delicate, vivid and true. I love the orchard mist image…Are you sure this is your first time?" He had asked it innocently, and was as unprepared as she was for the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, no," she said, and hugged him. "I just had a moment, that's all." She wiped her eyes and sniffled. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

He carefully packed his music away as she watched.

"Have a good workout," he said, over his shoulder. She waved.

**XXXxxxx**

The office of Professor Richard Jenks, head of the Opera department, was wood-paneled and elegant. She wondered why he had asked to see her. He stood up when she entered.

"Hello, Rachel." Hois voice was rich and deep—she shook his hand.

"Hello, Professor Jenks, You asked to see me?"

He beckoned her to sit. "We need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes. As you may or may not know, we have an unexpected soprano shortage in the Department."

"A _what_?" She actually giggled without thinking, then was relieved when he smiled.

"That did sound weird, didn't it?" He chuckled. "What I meant to say is, we are in need of a soprano to help one of our senior tenors, Gwyllym Evans, in an exhibition for a major opera company. It's sort of his 'pre-audition.' He wants to do a scene from Benjamin Britten's opera, _The Turn of The Screw_, and it needs a soprano to play off of him and sing together as well. It's in a few weeks, and Jessica Wells, our soprano who was beginning to work with him, has been sidelined with pneumonia."

"Oh my God. Is she all right?"

"She'll be fine, but our other two experienced sopranos are preparing for exhibitions of their own. " He sighed. "We have two sopranos in our freshman class, but neither of them have the training yet to handle this part."

"I've never sung opera. You know that, right?"

"Yes, Carmen has filled me in on your background. Fortunately, the libretto is in English, and you do have professional stage experience. And I've heard your voice." He smiled, and Rachel blushed.

"I will warn you, however, the music is at times dissonant and complex, and will definitely tax your sustained upper register. But the scene isn't long."

He went on to tell her about the opera. It was written in 1954, and was based on the Henry James story of the same name.

"It's about an English governess who believes the two young children in her care are in danger of being possessed by the ghosts of two deceased estate employees, Peter Quint and Miss Jessel. The scene Gwyllym wants to do is the opening of Act II, where the two ghosts discuss why they want to possess the children."

"So you want me to play Miss Jessel?" Her anxiety about singing opera was temporarily displaced by an artistic interest in playing a ghost.

"Yes."

She sat for a moment, thinking. It would be nice to stretch her voice out as far it could go—she hadn't had much opportunity to do that lately. And playing a ghost could be cool.

"Well, it definitely sounds…intriguing, as long as you're satisfied I can handle the singing."

He looked pleased.

"Excellent! Carmen did say you liked a challenge." She blushed again. "I've reserved some rehearsal space for you and Gwyllym, and you can give the music a try there. If you do this, I'll make sure you get elective credit." Then he gave her a sly look. "And if it works out, maybe we can woo you to our department. "

Rachel laughed.

**XXXxxxx**

"She doesn't even have a first name!"

Rachel was on the couch that evening, reading the libretto for _The Turn of the Screw _on her iPad_. _

"Who doesn't? Kurt asked. He was at the kitchen table, writing a paper.

"Miss Jessel." Rachel scratched her head. "In fact, neither does the lead character, The Governess, or the cook, Mrs. Grose."

"The whole thing sounds pretty creepy to me," Santana said, from the armchair. "That line you read that keeps getting repeated in the scene, ' the ceremony of innocence is drowned'. Yuck."

"Professor Jenks recommended a movie adaptation of the book, _The Innocents_, with Deborah Kerr. Would you guys watch it with me tonight? I want to know the story before I go in tomorrow and start trying to sing this with Gwyllym."

"What kind of name is 'Gwyllym', anyway?" Santana wondered. "It sounds like the name of some perverted elf from _Lord of the Rings_." Kurt paused in his writing to snicker.

"It's Welsh for William, geez." Rachel still chuckled at Santa's joke, however. "He's actually from Wales. And he wants to be a Britten specialist, that's why he picked this scene."

"Do we know of any other operas this guy Britten wrote?" Kurt asked, curious now. "I've heard some of his orchestral music, but had no idea he wrote operas."

"He wrote ten, apparently," Rachel was deep into his Wiki entry. "So I guess one could make a career of being a Britten specialist."

"Are you scared?" Kurt asked. "All this sounds a bit intimidating."

"Yeah," Santana said. "What if this Gwyllym guy is a prick? You were so lucky to have Art Fonseca as your lead in Funny Girl. He is a sweetie."

It was true. Art was a thirteen-year Broadway vet, and made sure Rachel always felt safe when performing with him. He taught her _so_ much; she would be forever grateful.

"Hey, what if I'm the one who's intimidating? I don't think Gwyllym ever did eight shows a week for two years."

Santana exchanged a fond look with Kurt. For months after Finn died, Rachel was a different person. Her legendary self-confidence was dialed back to almost zero, and it really wasn't until recently that the old Rachel they loved had started to reappear. This was a good sign.

"I say go in with a 'tude, Berry."

**XXXXxxxx **

She arrived, breathless, for the Turn of the Screw session a little late—her last class had run over.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, then happily realized Tom Foley was at the piano.

"Hey Tom," she said, happy to see him, "I didn't know you slummed for NYADA."

"Yeah, well, I had to bargain with my folks about living off campus, so I take piano gigs for the school. It's actually sweet money-"

"Can we get going, here?"

Rachel turned quickly, offering an apologetic hand. A tall, strikingly good looking man was standing, looking at some music. Gwyllym Evans had dark, wavy hair, fair skin, and was dressed in a black turtleneck and tailored trousers. He looked more nervous than agitated, so Rachel reserved judgment on whether or not he was a prick.

"Hi, I'm Rachel, and sorry I was late. My class ran over. You're Gwyllym Evans, right?"

Gwyllym's expression softened. "Yes. I'm so pleased to meet you as well, and didn't mean to be rude. I've been looking forward to this, actually". His voice had a wonderfully melodious Welsh ring.

"Well, I hope I don't disappoint you. I have no operatic training."

"Nonsense. You've spent two years on Broadway, so you can act and sing. Tom here will try and adjust the music to accommodate your voice on the extreme sections, if necessary. When I found out you were willing to help me I went and kissed Carmen's feet." His eyes were a beautiful pale green.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

She smiled over at Tom, who nodded.

"Yes, let's."

**A/N: Rachel's tanka is my own. **

**Reviews Welcome!**


	4. Chapter 4

The music session was tough, but by the hour's end, Rachel felt she could handle the part. Professor Jenks was right—the music was difficult and at times harsh and dissonant. But it was also strangely beautiful, too, especially the instrumental opening. Tom was a gifted pianist, and helped both Gwyllym and Rachel stretch their voices around Britten's score.

Gwyllym's voice stunned her. It seemed almost infinitely supple, and even at the high end kept its rich tone. He explained the scene to her in terms she could understand: Peter Quint and Miss Jessel were once illicit lovers, separated by class. So Gwyllym wanted Rachel to play the part with sultriness, underpinned with menace and madness. He wanted the pair to project the desperation of the utterly damned, as they plotted the corruption of the children, Miles and Flora.

She felt an immense thrill as they played off each other, eyes filled with madness and evil. It was like being back on stage with Art Fonseca. It was her natural environment, only this time she was stretching herself in new directions. And when she hit those high notes, that at first seemed impossibly high and harsh, she nailed them, getting a nod of respect from Tom, and renewed energy from Gwyllym, in character.

"I think this is going to work, Rachel." Gwyllym looked pleased. "Jessica hits those high notes effortlessly, but your voice has more of a _burnish_ to it."

"So I get the gig?"

Those gorgeous green eyes took her in.

"I think you'll do nicely." She blushed, partly with the pleasure of being chosen, and also because she suddenly felt warm. Did he like to dance, she wondered to herself.

They stood over the piano, laying out a schedule for rehearsals. Gwyllym wanted one every day until the performance, which was understandable, given the sudden change in partner, but difficult, given three totally different class schedules. The time that worked out best was 6 pm.

"I hope the two of you don't hate me after this." Gwyllym looked apologetic. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this help."

"Think nothing of it," Rachel said, and Tom nodded.

"Thanks." He looked relieved. "Dinner next time will be on me, agreed?"

Rachel and Tom both began to protest the need, but were interrupted.

"He's paying for dinner, and that's that," came a man's voice from behind them. Arms enveloped Gwyllym from behind.

"He's right," Gwyllym said, leaning back in pleased surprise. "This is Barry. Barry, meet Rachel Berry and Tom Foley."

"I cannot tell you how grateful we are for this," Barry said. He was equally as tall as Gwyllym, and even better looking, reminiscent of a young Rupert Everett.

Well, so much for that question, Rachel thought.

"What opera company is this exhibition for?" Tom asked, and Rachel wondered why the question hadn't been asked before.

"The Royal Opera," Gwyllym said.

"Oh my God, that's fantastic!" Rachel enthused.

"Is it open to the public?" Tom asked. "If not, can you get me in? "

"I can definitely get you in."

"Cool."

Barry looked at his watch. "Ready?" Gwyllyn nodded.

"We have to go right now, but thank you both so, so much!"

"Our pleasure," Rachel said, Tom nodding. "See you tomorrow!"

As they watched Gwyllym and Barry leave, Rachel wearily sat on the piano bench. "I'm whipped," she said.

"You did great, much better than he ever thought you would."

"What do you mean?"

Tom shook his head. "All that stuff about kissing Carmen's feet? I doubt it. He was on the phone right before you arrived, wondering aloud if any 'Broadway belter', as he put it, could handle the part."

Rachel laughed. "I guess I showed him."

"You sounded fantastic." He was putting away the music.

"You're playing was wonderful, too. When did you start?"

"When I was five, I sat at my _grand-maman's_ piano in Paris and asked her to show me how to play. She was a very good musician. In fact, she was a distant relative of the composer Gabriel _Fauré_."

It occurred to her that she really knew very little about him, other than what he told her about his parents.

"Did she inspire you to be a composer?"

"Nope. Leonard Bernstein did."

"You're a _West Side Story fan_? I played Maria in our high school production!"

Tom smiled.

"I saw the movie when I was ten, and the complexity of the music grabbed me. I mean, opera was tough, but to see those intricate, jazzy rhythms being performed, and how it propelled the story—I was just hooked. Then I started mainlining Sondheim…" He sighed.

"I was the same way with _Funny Girl_. I first saw that when I was five, and I've wanted to be Barbra Streisand ever since."

"How does it feel to be as close to being her as you were?"

Rachel clasped her hands in her lap. Her voice dropped.

"Much of the joy and fulfillment was swept away by Finn's death, to be honest."

At that moment, she heard something from him she didn't expect. Instead of trying to reassure her or, more egregiously, downplay Finn's death in relation to her dreams, Tom simply nodded somberly.

"It became just a job, a routine, a way to keep you from joining him," he said, more to himself, actually.

She stared at him, stunned by the empathy. "Have you lost someone close?" she almost whispered.

He shook his head. "No. But what you've told me about your relationship with Finn, and the fact you didn't quit the show, I just can't see anyone feeling any other way, given those circumstances. Nobody _human,_ anyway."

Rachel's hands began to unclasp. She didn't feel like she had to maintain her guard with him. Even more importantly, she didn't feel the overwhelming urge to flee. But she didn't want to dominate the conversation.

"You know that song you've been working on, the one without the bridge?" She had to change the subject. "Could you play it for me?"

Tom looked at her for a moment, then said, "Sure." She stood up, and he took the seat.

"Is it a standalone song, or part of a musical? I hear you're going to be writing next year's senior musical."

"My swan song, yes." He laughed. "This is just a song."

The melody was mournful, as she remembered, but with a subtle lilt. She saw his lips silently moving.

"Are there lyrics yet?"

"Yeah. Pardon my voice…"

His voice was actually very good: high and strong, but with just a hint of roughness, similar to Jackson Browne's:

_**Sittin' on this beach, sunset in my eyes**_

_**The ocean a darkening blue**_

_**My body aches all over from my day;**_

_**My heart, from losing you.**_

"That fourth line still needs massaging."

_**Everybody said the distance was too much**_

_**And somehow I believed them, too**_

_**Never should have listened to those voices**_

_**When I should have just listened to you**_

"Now the chorus:"

_**You told me once three thousand miles was nothing**_

_**And what we had would always see us through**_

_**Instead I listened to the voices**_

_**When I should have just listened to you**_

His playing was relaxed, and he sang the song in an almost whisper:

_**Now you say he makes you feel alive again**_

_**And deep inside it hurts to know that's true**_

_**If I had only listened to my heart**_

_**Because it always listened to you**_

_**You told me once three thousand miles was nothing**_

_**And what we had would always see us through**_

_**This paradise right now just seems like hell**_

_**Because I should have just listened to you.**_

He let the last chord fade, then cocked his head towards her.

She didn't say anything at first. The song was still resonating with her.

"It's lovely, just lovely," she said finally, but had to know: "Is it autobiographical?"

"No, not at all." He shook his head slowly. "When I was in high school I used to hang out on the beach with some surfer friends, and I met an old vagrant who slept under a lifeguard tower. He said he had this girl in New York who said she'd wait for him, because "three thousand miles was nothing", but he got messed up on booze and stranded here in California, and she finally gave up and married somebody else. That was a little too sad, you know? So I changed it a bit."

"You're a storyteller."

"That's the best compliment I've gotten here," he said.

"Are you a surfer?"

He laughed and shook his head. "I hate contact lenses, and I'm blind as a bat without these." He pointed to his glasses. "So I didn't surf. I hung out with surfers because that was a great way to meet girls, or so I thought."

"You didn't meet any?"

"Well, not as many as I wanted to." He grinned. "The ones we met kind of expected me to surf, as well. But I did date two very nice ones. Nothing serious, however. My high school years were fun."

She thought about her own life, and how different his appeared to have been. And yet, he seemed to have a natural insight into her feelings, some fundamental empathy. Maybe it was his "do-it-yourself" Buddhist approach that gave him such openness; she didn't know. She liked the feeling she could trust him.

"What about here?"

He looked at her directly, with an open smile, but his answer was maddeningly vague: "I've seen a few people."

"You used the past tense."

She knew what he was doing, and the realization brought her such relief: he understood her need, at this point in her life, to control the levels of intimacy with another man. He wanted her to know he was interested, but had no desire to overwhelm her delicate relationship equilibrium. He _got _her struggle back into the light.

"I'm not seeing anybody right now," he said softly, then waited.

"Good."

**XXXxxxx**

They had coffee and banana bread at The Arabica; he chose the Tanzanian Peaberry because she said she hadn't tried it.

"Most excellent," he said.

She told him about her life, having two dads, being raised in the arts, friendless until she met the high school quarterback and fell in love, Glee Club, almost getting married twice, blowing her NYADA audition, Nationals. Then the train station, being alone and heartbroken in New York, living with Finn's brother and Santana, the Winter Showcase, _Funny Girl_. She even told Tom about Brody because she instinctively knew she could trust him with the information.

"Brody Weston was a gigolo?" Tom whistled. "Rachel, you realize you have enough for a best-selling autobiography already, right?"

"Yeah, I know." She chuckled. "Maybe a TV series, too?"

She noticed he didn't have the same distracted look that Ron had worn, and he knew a hell of a lot more about her than Ron did. It was refreshing to just be sitting here, drinking coffee. No pressure. They could go in any direction they wanted.

"I have twin older brothers, Bill and Ted."

She snickered, and he sighed. "Yeah. They used to hate it, and even threatened to legally change their names. Then they discovered girls, and found out girls thought it was cute."

"It _is_ cute," Rachel purred, and he rolled his eyes.

"They're doctors, and work in Mom and Dad's clinic. And I have an older sister, Joanna, who had to make the traumatic decision between medical school and a modeling career."

"That's _tough." _She giggled. "What did she decide?"

"Joanna's a neurologist in San Francisco."

"So you're the baby of the family, and, apparently, the black sheep."

"Yeah, and definitely unexpected, too. Mom calls me _le surprise béni_, 'the blessed surprise '".

"Your mom sounds sweet."

"She and Dad are coming out here in a couple of weeks. Would you like to meet them?" He eyed her carefully.

"I'd be honored, actually." She liked how pleased that seemed to make him.

They told each other where they lived. Tom lived in Ridgewood, Queens, and was delighted to hear she lived not far away, in Bushwick.

"It's a rent-controlled apartment, and I have a roommate who's never there. He's a mysterious, hipster, philosophy student at Queens College named Toby."

The apartment was too small for a piano. Tom made her laugh by saying he refused to compose on anything less than a baby grand, so he often spent the night in NYADA rehearsal rooms.

Rachel hated to have to admit being exhausted, but Tom didn't seem to mind.

"I'd like to cook you dinner," she said, "And have you meet Kurt and Santana."

"Sounds good."

"So, Friday night? We can take the train after the session with Gwyllym."

"Won't you be tired? Can I buy Chinese for you and your roommates instead, and get a rain check for a Rachel-cooked meal?"

"That'll definitely get you points with Santana. Yes, that sounds lovely. Thank you!"

She allowed herself to take his arm on the walk to Canal Street Station.

**A/N: the lyrics to Tom's song are mine. Reviews are welcome!**


	5. Chapter 5

She had good days and she had bad days. Fortunately, the bad days were fairly rare. The only problem was, they came without warning, and without an obvious trigger.

Kurt knew something was wrong the Saturday after Rachel brought Tom over for dinner.

She had seemed in a great mood after the session with Gwyllym, as she and Tom bore the Chinese food inside.

"Santana, Kurt, this is Tom Foley. Tom, this is Santana Lopez, my dear friend from high school, and Kurt Hummel, Finn's stepbrother."

Kurt remembered them exchanging pleasantries, and being impressed at Tom's relaxed openness. He impressed Santana, especially, who watched him like a hawk, and immediately subjected him to her patented, friendly abuse.

Tom was helping himself to some of Rachel's Dandan noodles, eliciting a beaming smile from her ("They're vegan! I love the peanut sauce, don't you?").

He turned to Santana.

"I was telling Rachel that 'The Golden Lotus' was the title of a notorious, sexually explicit novel from Ancient China."

"Wow. Cool. However, don't think that little tidbit's going to get you into my girl Berry's pants anytime soon."

Kurt face palmed and an indignant Rachel was about to say something, but Tom was quick on his feet: "Of course not," he told Santana, then turned to Rachel and winked, asking, "But knowing it is still one of the prerequisites, right?"

"I'm afraid so." Rachel giggled, and even Santana grinned as she pulled a garlic shrimp from the box with her chopstsicks.

Kurt liked him immensely. Besides knowing the Broadway canon like the back of his hand, Tom was literate, quick-witted, and charming, but not phony. And Rachel's opinion of his talent was already very high, which told Kurt he was on much better footing than Brody Weston had ever been. Best of all, they could talk about Finn openly in front of him.

There was no evidence of a real romantic attachment yet, as far as Kurt could tell, other than a couple of relaxed looks of affection between them. If Tom was pursuing Rachel, it was obvious that he was treating her with care and respect.

"Thanks for inviting me, Rachel," he said at the door, "It was nice meeting you all."

There was no kiss, Kurt noticed, just a hushed, mutual "See you later."

"Thanks for the grub," Santana said, smiling. Tom waved at that. "Anytime."

Santana gave him her highest praise after he left: "He's all right."

"He's more than all right," Rachel said, clearing the dishes. "He talked Gwyllym into getting you and Kurt admission to the opera exhibition."

The first warning sign Kurt noticed was Rachel was still in bed at 8 am when he got up. The second was her in a fetal position, eyes open and red-rimmed, wearing his McKinley football shirt. Her pillow had a damp spot.

"Did you have the dream again?" She nodded wordlessly and gripped the covers tightly. He sat on the bed and pulled her closer. "Same time?" Another nod.

"You poor dear," he murmured, wondering what to do. He settled on going into the kitchen to brew espresso for lattes. Sometimes, coffee helped.

This dream would knock Rachel for a loop every time. All she would (or could, he wasn't sure) say about it was, it involved Finn and had a terrifying ending that would wake her up at ~1 am in the morning, and that she couldn't sleep afterwards. The dream always occurred around the same time, but they couldn't figure out what significance, if any, that had. Finn had died at 9:47 pm, so that wasn't relevant. Her doctor said it was probably tied to her body's own circadian rhythms, and that point in her REM sleep cycle which made her susceptible to it. But Kurt doubted that this was the case, since Rachel went to bed much earlier now. The bottom line was, Rachel was essentially out of commission for a day. She would spend it on the couch, if she got out of bed at all, uncommunicative. She said it seemed to drag up all the pain she thought had healed, or at least learned to live with.

The coffee would probably get her out of bed, at least. And Santana was out at a bakery looking for blueberry scones that she liked. But, as he was steaming the milk, Kurt had an idea. He texted Santana his plan, then looked through Rachel's phone for a number.

**XXxxxx **

Rachel was on the couch, almost done with her coffee, when the doorbell rang. She watched Kurt go to the door, then mutter something. Oh no. This was _not_ happening. Tom was at the door, and Kurt was actually letting him in.

She didn't even have the strength to be angry, or to worry about her appearance (she was glad, at least, to have had her hair in a decent braid).

"Tom," she said, before he could even say anything, "I don't think it's a good idea to be around me today." She sounded weary, even to herself.

"Kurt said you were feeling down, and asked me if I could keep you company while he and Santana went—" He looked back at Kurt. "—_where_?"

"Lagerfeld's new concept store." Kurt hissed.

"Lagerfeld's new concept store," Tom said, with an amazingly straight face, almost looking like he knew what that meant.

Rachel almost laughed. She liked Tom's _guyness, _which seemed to fly, stereotypically, in the face of his avocation. Tom was wearing an old Social Distortion t-shirt and jeans, as opposed to Kurt's snappy black shirt and trousers. Enough said.

She knew Kurt meant well. Her initial feeling was not to have Tom see her like this- all she wanted to do was ride the sadness out. But he did come from Ridgewood…

"Okay. But I'm going to take a shower. Could you make Tom and me some more coffee while I'm doing that?"

Kurt winked in relief at Tom. "My pleasure."

When she came out of the bathroom, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, Rachel felt a little better. She saw Tom sitting alone on the couch with his coffee and a plate of blueberry scones. He smiled as she joined him.

"They're gone."

"Tom, I'm sorry Kurt called you. As you can see, I feel better. I just have this dream every now and then and it's awful and I can't sleep afterwards. I should be fine by tomorrow."

He said nothing at first, just nodded and sipped his coffee. Then he spoke.

"I'm no psychiatrist, but I'm a good listener. If you want to talk about the dream, that's cool." Then he allayed her fears. "It won't scare me off."

"Why would you want to subject yourself to that?"

"I don't, particularly. It's not pleasant to hear about someone's pain. But Kurt said you haven't talked about it with anyone other than your doctor, who I assume recommended some kind of counselor or other mental health professional?"

She nodded, "But it's getting less and less frequent, so I figured eventually it would stop. And it did—the last few months of the show I didn't have it at all. It's only since I went back to NYADA that it has returned."

He smiled. ""I listen for free. And I won't suggest any actions, either—I'm not qualified. But maybe telling a non-professional who cares about you will help."

"You care about me?"

His look of exasperation made her giggle. And she wondered if maybe he might be the perfect person to whom she could actually describe the dream. She, somehow, knew he wouldn't judge her.

"All right… I'll tell you. But first let's eat some scones, okay?"

Finn is in trouble. She knows it. He's not answering his phone, and his mother says she has this plate of fried chicken waiting for him to eat, and everyone knows how much he loves the fried chicken his mom makes. The police won't talk to her because she's a singer, so she wanders downtown Lima, calling his name. Eventually this guy tells her Finn is being held in this room underneath the stage of McKinley High, and when she gets there Principal Figgins has three heads, and tries to yell at her to stay away, but she shows him a hall pass, and starts to descend a dark, black staircase. At the bottom is a brightly-lit room, like the interrogation room of every cop show ever made, with two guys looking like twin Dakota Stanleys seated at the table.

"They tell me I have to sing to get him released, so I sing a verse from the folk song "The Water is Wide". Rachel's voice was beginning to quaver.

"Can you sing it for me?"

She gathered herself together, but her voice was still a bit shaky:

_**The water is wide, I can't cross o'er**_

_**And neither have I wings to fly**_

_**Give me a boat that can carry two**_

_**And both shall row, my love and I **_

She saw Tom's face soften as she sang. He nodded for her to continue.

"The two guys look like they're in a trance until Finn appears, and I'm so, so happy, and they tell me I have to walk up the stairs ahead of Finn, but I _can't look back, ever_." The tears came then. "So we're walking up the stairs, and I start to worry that they can't be trusted, but I keep going. Finn isn't saying anything, so I start to think they tricked me."

Her head fell. "So I look back."

"And what happened?" he gently asked.

"I see Finn behind, and he looks like he did when he first said he loved me… but then these dark figures, like those demons in the movie _Ghost _ appear, and drag him back and he screams for me, but I can't do anything, and then I find myself in Times Square, alone, looking at my _Funny Girl_ billboard."

She was crying now. Tom reached into his pocket. He produced a clean handkerchief, wiped the tears away, then slid closer and brought her into a hug.

"What does it mean, Tom? It has to mean something."

"I don't know what it means." He paused, in wonder. "But I do know that you just basically told me the Ancient Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice."

"What?" She sat up, confused.

"Orpheus was a singer, whose voice could charm even the gods. When his beloved wife Eurydice dies, he travels to the underworld, and sings a song of such beauty that he softens the hearts of Hades and Persephone, gods of the Underworld, and they release Eurydice on one condition: that he lead her and never look back until both of them have reached the upper world. But he looks back, and loses her forever."

Rachel just stared at him. "I've never heard that story, Tom."

He shrugged. "I can't explain it, Rachel. Maybe the story is an archetype, you know, some story that expresses something universal about the human condition."

Or some drunken condition, she thought, and something strange happened: immediately, a weight was lifted from her as she remembered Finn lecturing her on drunken girl archetypes. It brought a smile to her face.

"I think I feel better."

He looked relieved. His eyes were an impossibly deep shade of blue, almost purple, and the sun steaming through her windows caught his face just right, so she impulsively leaned closer and kissed him on the lips.

"I've been wanting to do that."

"You have?"

She nodded, serenely. Whatever the significance of the dream_, she_ was feeling alive. Her heart was pounding now, instead of aching. And Tom was alive, too.

"You should think about trying to get some sleep when the caffeine wears off."

"And when I wake up?"

"Call me. We'll do something tonight, okay?" He stood up.

"I'd love to. A movie, perhaps? " He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"Great. You choose."

"You may come to regret that."

He looked back from the door.

"I doubt it."

**A/N: lyrics are from an old, very beautiful English folk song, "The Water is Wide." Reviews welcome!**


	6. Chapter 6

For a time after Finn's death, Rachel felt she had loved him too much. He had become too much a part of her, part of her vitals, which had now been ripped out. There were times, lying in her bed late at night, that she didn't care if she never woke up again. At least the pain would be gone. And she would be with him once more. Each awakening became a disappointment; each closing of her eyes, a last wish. Of course, everyone told her this was normal, which she hated. She came to hate the easy answers, the well-intentioned advice, because she was the only one who knew how she felt. It became exhausting to be gracious, because the people giving her the advice meant well, and she didn't think she had the right to tell them that what she really needed was space, and empathy.

Like what Tom gave her.

She called him when she awoke, completely refreshed, in the mid-afternoon. There were plenty of choices for movies in Manhattan, but one caught her eye, playing at an art house in the Village.

"Have you ever heard of a film called 'Black Orpheus'?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"I Googled it, and it won the Palme d'Or at Cannes in 1959, and the Academy Award in 1960 for best Foreign Language Film. It's a retelling of the Orpheus legend in Rio de Janiero during Carnival."

"Aw, but it'll have _subtitles_." Tom whined, then laughed.

"You said it was _my_ choice, remember?"

"I know. It sounds great, Rachel. What time should I be there?"

They had sandwiches and ginger beer at a deli near the theatre beforehand. Tom surprised her by ordering what she did—a sandwich with sharp cheddar, sprouts, tomato, onion and chipotle mayo, on seven-grain bread ("It's called the 'Malibu', Rachel. How can I not give it a try?"). When she asked his opinion on its authenticity, he shrugged and said any sandwich with either sprouts or avocado is assumed to be "Californian". Nevertheless, the sandwiches were delicious.

As they ate, they talked about the exhibition. Rachel was definitely getting comfortable with the music and the singing. She said her voice had stretched enough to embrace the different, often startling changes the score required. Tom told her he had seen the opera staged before in Los Angeles ("I didn't spend all my free time with surfers") and that she seemed equally capable in that scene as the soprano performer. She said she couldn't wait for the last two practice sessions, which were scheduled with a chamber orchestra instead of Tom's piano accompaniment, and he agreed, wanting to be able to watch from the seats. Then he made another confession:

"I saw your show."

"You _did_?" She was delighted.

"I didn't tell you before because I didn't want you to think I was just a fanboy."

"Are you a fanboy?" She arched her eyebrows playfully.

"Yeah." Tom looked a bit embarrassed. "Your voice blew me away."

She shivered. The look on his face at that moment was so familiar it was almost painful. But the feeling passed, and Rachel enjoyed the fact that memories of Finn could come up in Tom's presence without making her want to shrink away. She reached out and touched his cheek.

"I'm glad."

He bought her Sour Patch Kids in the theatre, and she raised the arm of her seat so she could tuck her legs under her and lean against him. And he reached out to hug her tightly when Orpheus looked back, and both of them got lost in the sumptuous images of sinuous street dancing and the rich rhythms of samba music that so exemplified Rio at Carnival.

Afterwards, she took his arm on the stroll to the train station.

"I still wish I knew what the dream means," she said. "Even if it is an archetype, as you suggested, doesn't the fact it recurs make its meaning significant?"

"I don't know. My sister and I have talked about dreams. She told me that, as far as we know, all mammals and birds have them. We just don't know why. And I'm not sure that we can assume that because a dream recurs, its content is significant."

"Really? Then why do we spend time analyzing dreams?"

He shrugged. "I think we assume their meaning has significance. I'm just not sure that's true. Joanna seems to think the images of dreams are byproducts of certain mechanical processes in the brain that occur during sleep, not some deep key into our psyches."

"Do you agree with that?"

"I don't know, honestly."

"I wish I knew," she sighed wistfully, "because when I wake up afterwards, I think I was responsible for Finn's death somehow."

He stopped dead on the sidewalk and grasped her shoulders, turning her to face him.

"Do you believe it?"

"Sometimes..." She was nodding as the tears came. And she expected him to tell her she was being ridiculous, or silly, or that it was impossible because she had been here in New York, at a party with the cast, laughing and enjoying herself the moment that Finn was run off the road by that drunk driver, and lay upside down in his truck, bleeding to death, alone in the dark, and how he must have been terrified, and what if he had called her name?

No. Tom just pulled her close to him and they stood, the crowd flowing around them, like a human river finding its way around an obstacle. And he held her, silently, until the intensity of her grief eased, and she was able to breathe normally again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I know. No need to be." Another clean handkerchief magically appeared, and she took it gratefully.

They began walking again, and it felt good to hold his arm. But she was worried.

"I thought I was ready for this," she said.

"What makes you think you aren't?"

"Other than the fact I just lost it over another man right in front of you? "Don't you hear alarm bells going off?"

"Alarm bells? For what? That you still love Finn? I don't understand."

She took a deep breath, and looked at his face for clues that he was hiding what Ron couldn't. His countenance remained calm, however; utterly without guile. Nevertheless, his transparency unnerved her.

"Tom, I-I just may not be ready. Not if I can still lose it this badly. It's not fair to you."

She could now see disappointment. He sighed.

"I'm not trying to take his place. Just so you know."

He didn't elaborate, and she didn't pursue it. And when he dropped her off, he at least didn't appear angry. She stood on the steps, trying to think what to say, because she truly liked him. He saved her by simply taking her hand and kissing it.

"I've been wanting to do that, too."

And then he was gone.

**XXXXxxxx**

Nobody was home. Rachel changed into some pajamas, got a beer, and curled up in an armchair. What a disaster. This shouldn't have happened. It had been two years now, she should have had better control than this. Surely. It's not as if she hadn't made _any_ progress, right? All anyone had to do would be to look at her a year ago to see that. Of course, as soon as she started comparing then and now, it became clear she had overreacted. Back then she was still trying to come to terms with Finn's death. She thought about the time she tried taking out her wedding dress:

_It took a year before she could even approach the box, there on the shelf, in the closet of her room in Lima. Next to it, she almost couldn't breathe, and had to keep telling herself it was okay, that she didn't have to do anything with it. She could keep it on that shelf forever, if she so chose. Her breathing eased._

_She felt compelled to reach out and touch it, yet was terrified that doing so would be like ripping the bandage off a barely-healed wound. The past year had been a slow, agonizing attempt at getting back up off the floor. It was as if she had to relearn to walk and think and eat by herself, in a world without him. The job had been a godsend for her, a place to concentrate all of her efforts as she integrated back into the world of the living. Opening the box might ruin all that. _

_She wanted to scream out of frustration. _

_In the end, she gave in; trailing her hand along the box's smooth outside edges, holding her breath, mouth dry, waiting for the pain that never came. Instead, there was the memory of how the dress felt as she smoothed it with her fingers, and the rustling sound it made when she had walked towards him in the hallway. At least Finn had been able to see her wear it. He had been granted that glimpse of the happy ending he wanted, that simple happy ending which he deserved. None of the pain and heartbreak that followed could ever take that away from him. She derived true comfort from that. _

_It didn't last long. The raw pain may have eased, but waiting behind it was something worse: the knowledge that she would have to live the rest of her life without him. She would never kiss his lips again. She would never be his wife, never bear their children, never even be granted the humble pleasure of growing old with him. All she would ever have of him was memories, and a gravestone, far from her. All their plans and dreams of a life together were gone. The enormity of it brought her to her knees in the closet, sinking down, head bowed in sorrow. There were no tears now, only desolation. _

_The sun going down outside brought her out of it, when she realized it was dark in her bedroom. She struggled to her feet, only to end up sitting on her bed, gazing out the window at the trees' dark outlines etched upon the fading sky. _

That was a year ago. Compared to now, she was 100% improved. But was that good enough for anyone contemplating a relationship with her? She was still deeply in love with Finn; that was never going to change. So where did that leave anyone else?

She finished the beer quickly and went into the bathroom. Brushing her teeth, his words filled her mind: "I'm not trying to take his place." She wasn't sure what that meant. She hadn't even asked him. And she should have asked him, because she was beginning to realize he was made of far sterner stuff than Ron, and she should have given him the choice to run away, not made the choice for him.

Climbing into bed, Rachel reached for her phone, and didn't even hesitate calling Tom's number.

"Rachel?"

"Hi. Did I wake you?"

"No, no… I was working on that damned bridge, actually."

She smiled. "Maybe I can help."

There was a pause. She could imagine him thinking it over.

"Maybe you can."

Her Finn reminded her how much she adored making music with someone she cared about. She thanked him, silently.

"Maybe I will."

Chuckling on the other end.

"Cool."

"May I come over early tomorrow? Say, seven? "

"I'll have coffee made."

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"No more apologies."

Her Finn was chuckling with her now, and she felt warm and safe.

"Okay. No more apologies. See you tomorrow."

"Good night, Rachel."

Her sleep was restful, and mercifully free of remembered dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom's apartment was on the second floor, up creaky stairs, and had two doors, one at each end of the short, dark (but clean) hall. She chose the door on the left.

"Hi." He smiled easily and immediately, ushering her into the small living room.

"Hi", she said, handing him the white bakery bag she had brought. He peeked inside.

"I had a hankering for donut holes," he said, grinning. "And they're glazed—my favorite."

"I saw a small bag of them next to your stuff once."

"Let's get some coffee."

He led her by the hand towards the kitchen, passing through his very small but clean and orderly room, then through a tiny hall with a micro-bathroom to the left, and straight through Toby's messy-but-not-dirty room ("I told you he's never here") into the surprisingly spacious, well-lit kitchen.

"I've heard about 'railroad car ' apartments, but never actually seen one."

"They have their…charms." He poured them coffee and they sat at his simple white table. She sipped, and looked up in pleasure. It was Kenyan.

"You got this from The Arabica, didn't you?"

"Yeah. I asked them if they sold the beans. I just love this stuff. Toby does too, apparently; that, or some coffee pixie keeps raiding my stash."

They sat in silence for a few moments, each enjoying the other's company. Rachel savored the feeling. Her instinct was to apologize again for the night before. Instead, she felt emboldened, and for the first time in a long while, didn't worry about being crippled by memory. She got up and slipped into Tom's lap. Before he could say anything, her fingers were in his still-wet hair, and she was kissing him. His arms came around to steady her, and she enjoyed the softness of his lips, and his pleasure when her tongue pressed gently against his teeth. He tasted wonderfully of the coffee, and as his tongue found hers, insistent now, she rejoiced at the sheer, simple pleasure of kissing a man like this again. He would be involuntarily aroused, she knew-already she could feel him hardening against her thigh—and she also knew she wasn't ready for _that_ yet, but she was also certain he understood she would let him know when she was. There was something about Tom Foley, something _special_, in the way he seemed incapable of wanting to tell her how or when to feel. So she eased back and pulled away, leaning her forehead against his, looking into his eyes.

"You said no more apologies."

"I did, indeed."

She couldn't get over the depth of blue in his eyes. And she wanted him to remain patient with her, because the freedom of emotion she felt around him was exhilarating, yet didn't seem to short-change her love for Finn. Maybe that was what he meant about not trying to take Finn's place: he somehow knew that would not be necessary.

"I don't know what's going to happen, yet," she said. "I just have to make sure my feelings honor Finn's memory, first and foremost, before I let another in completely." She cradled his face in her hands. "I don't ever want to hurt you. But I may very well do so along the way, because I'm learning to live again, you know? I adore making music with you, and that was also something sacred to Finn and me, so his spirit will always be entangled with whatever develops between us. I'm hoping you can understand that means you and me might take a bit of time."

"You adore making music with me? All we've done so far is that work with Gwyllym."

She laughed. "I haven't told you yet. I've been singing your song to warm up for class."

He kissed _her_ this time, reaching up at first, nibbling, pulling her lips to his with his teeth, hands caressing the back of her head, fingers entangled in her rich brown hair, slow, calm, patient, exploring her mouth and creating tingles within her she hadn't enjoyed in so long, then pulling apart gently, letting the lips linger together as long as they possibly could, fingers running along her jaw as he drew back. Those blue eyes seemed hypnotic now.

"I have something to show you." She let him get up and lead her, hand-in-hand, towards his bedroom. And she trusted him completely, knowing he had listened and understood what she had told him, yet surprised herself by imagining, for a fraction of a second, being with him in the unmade bed, the only disorderly aspect of the room. He stopped by a book shelf, and pulled out a blue three-ring binder from a group of three. It had a clear plastic sleeve on the cover, and a white sheet of paper slipped inside it, with the title: _Mount Olympus Blues_.

Her eyes grew wide. "Is this your senior thesis project, the senior musical?"

He nodded. "The beginnings of it. A few snippets of songs, and a story."

Her eyes shone at the prospect of being close to art as it was being created.

"I'd like to ask you to work with me on it. I trust your instincts, and you know how I feel about your instrument."

"You do realize I can't perform it, right?"

"Yeah. A travesty, in my book. But you're right—you have had the experience, and other students should be allowed to shine before they are let out into the real world."

She squeezed his hand. "I'd be honored to work with you on it."

They took the binder back to the table, and he poured them more coffee.

He told her the musical would be a modern retelling of the Hermaphroditus myth from Ancient Greece. She wasn't familiar with it.

"Hermaphroditus was the son of the gods Hermes and Aphrodite, the child of an illicit affair. He was brought up in secret by wood nymphs. Legend has it he grew to become exceedingly handsome, and an expert hunter. One day he was out hunting and came upon the pool and fountain of the water nymph Salmacis. She fell in love with him, but he refused her advances, so she appealed to the gods to merge their flesh together. They granted her wish and they become one being. He supposedly also appealed to the gods to curse the pool, so that anyone drinking from it would share his fate."

"So that's the explanation for hermaphrodites…interesting. But how do you make that a modern retelling?"

He looked excited. "Salmacis is Sally Jones, a beautiful but selfish, narcissistic lawyer. She attempts to have an affair with a married man, Herman Lonsdale, from her law office. At first he resists her, but she is relentless, and he half-heartedly agrees to see her outside of the office. The first act builds up to that, then ends with him coming to his senses and rejecting her, partly because his parents divorced because his mother had become pregnant with him during an affair. But the damage has been done: Sally, who initially set her aim on Herman out of boredom, has now fallen madly in love with him, and decides, as the curtain falls, to not take the rejection lying down."

"So to speak." Rachel winked. "Go on." His sexy look made her melt.

"The first half of the second act involves her unsuccessful attempts to entice him again. But as she becomes consumed by the madness of unrequited love, it gets much darker. In the second half, she tries blackmailing him by threatening to tell his wife, but he has already confessed the dalliance and been forgiven. In desperation, Sally drugs Herman, rapes him, and becomes pregnant with their son—that's the merging of the flesh from the myth—and then exploits Herman's love for the child, bringing down his marriage, then both their careers in order to have him. I'm going to leave it open as to what ultimately happens." He chuckled. "Actually, I haven't figured that out yet."

"When do you want to start work?" She popped an entire donut hole in her mouth, making him laugh.

"I was thinking after the exhibition. I can reserve a room in the evening for us to work on that exclusively, if that's okay, leaving my other reservation for songwriting class."

"So I can still catch you napping in the afternoons?"

"Yep. In fact, since you don't have class that same hour, I'd appreciate the company, if you are so inclined."

"You want me to sleep with you in the rehearsal room? "

She wanted to send him a subtle, playful signal, that she found him sexually desirable, even if she was not ready to take it to the next level-yet. Not that Tom appeared to need that kind of ego-stroking. She just felt, considering how much she liked and respected him, that he deserved it.

He laughed at her little joke, and she could see her message had been received as she had intended.

"Can we just hang out here for a while instead of work?"

They brought heir coffee and donut holes into the living room, and she snuggled next to him, legs tucked beneath her, as she did in the movie theatre.

"My God, where did you get that gorgeous picture?" Over the TV flat screen was a large framed photograph of two black-and white, long-legged birds, in a snowstorm, entwined in a delicate, graceful, courtship dance.

"My parents gave it to me for my birthday. The birds are Dancing Cranes from Japan. Don't they look more like human ballet dancers than birds?"

"Oh yes… and the falling snow just makes it perfect. They even look like they are in love."

They sipped coffee.

"Tom, did you have a steady girlfriend in high school?"

"Sure. From the last half of eleventh grade through senior year."

"Was she one of those surf bunnies you told me about?"

He shook his head. "No. She was pale-skinned and bookish, a dark-haired beauty with the gloriously French name of Sandrine Breguet."

Rachel snuggled closer. "Was she French?"

"Her parents were. They emigrated to the States in 1980. We met, of course, in French class, and she took a shine to me because I could already speak it reasonably well."

"Not because of your gorgeous eyes?" she giggled.

"That too." He smiled.

"Did you call her Sandy?"

"Everybody called her Sandy except me. I thought her name was too beautiful to monkey with."

"Is that why you call me Rachel, not Rach, like everyone else?"

He kissed the top of her head. "Exactly."

"Even Finn called me Rach. Did she call you Tom?"

"She called me Tom, because I told her I preferred it over Thomas. But she liked the name Thomas. She said she wanted to name her first born son Thomas."

Rachel noticed he hadn't asked her any similar questions.

"Was she a good girlfriend?"

His face lightened at the memory. "Yeah, she was."

"So what happened?"

'She knew I was coming to NYADA, and also knew she really wanted to be in France. Sandrine kept saying she was tired of feeling culturally schizophrenic. So after we graduated she moved to Paris. We exchange newsy emails now and then."

"Would you tell me about the best time you ever had with Sandrine? I'll tell you about an epic date Finn and I had in exchange, if you want."

He ran his hand through his hair. "May I tell you some other time? I'm enjoying being here with you too much to talk about her. I want to hear the story about how you choked at your NYADA audition and convinced Carmen to admit you. That has become the NYADA campfire story of all time; it would be a shame to waste having you snuggled against me and not check the story for validity. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't ask."

She wanted to kiss him again, just for being a fanboy. Maybe she would.

**A/N: Reviews welcome!**


	8. Chapter 8

Kurt ran into Tom in the student lounge on Monday, before lunch.

"You're not composing," he quipped, sitting next to him on the couch. He looked at the book Tom was reading. "_The Collected Plays of Sam Shepard_? Are you minoring in acting?"

Tom grinned. "No, Rachel recommended his play _Buried Child_. She said it won a Pulitzer, and I've never read or seen any of his plays."

"You really like her, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do." Kurt could see, by the way Tom smiled, that was an understatement. He had suspected that things were moving along between them when she arrived home after being at Tom's place. Kurt hadn't seen her that relaxed in a long time. And she looked different than when she had been with Brody. More balanced, perhaps, more spiritually nourished. She had told him excitedly about Tom's musical, and how they were going to work on it, and it was only because Kurt had known her for so long that he knew she hadn't just had sex. But she did look happy, almost deeply so.

"She really likes you, too." He could see Tom was pleased. "And I'd just like to thank you for how well you've treated her, especially regarding the memory of my brother."

"Thanks Kurt, that means a lot. You know, it's easy to forget that you suffered a major loss, as well. I don't think I've ever asked you how you are doing."

"I'm okay. Our respective parents got remarried only a few years ago, so, to be honest, we didn't know each other intimately well. But I loved him nonetheless. And he loved Rachel deeply. I don't know how much of their story she's told you, so I'm not going to presume. All I'll say is, you have to be special for her to show this level of affection towards you."

"That's high praise. Thanks. She's special too—I've never met anyone quite like her."

"She sure is," Kurt said. He studied Tom for a moment. What was interesting about him was how different he looked compared to the other men in her life. He certainly lacked Finn's classic good looks, and had none of the chiseled prettiness of Brody Weston. His face did have a boyish quality to it, like Jesse's did, but without the Hollywood perfection. Santana said he looked like a young Warren Zevon, with the curly mop of hair and the glasses, and almost-full lips that on a cynical person would have looked like they were in a permanent sneer; instead, coupled with those blue eyes, he looked calm and wise.

"She's had a long struggle. I'm glad she's met someone like you." Then he paused, as a memory came over him. "What Rachel and Finn had was deep, some say epic. But what I remember most was the sweetness, the way they adored each other." He gave Tom an enigmatic, heartbroken look. "I'd like to see some sweetness in her life again."

Tom looked like he didn't quite know what to say to that. Kurt got up and patted his arm.

"See you around."

**XXXXxxxx**

He took her hand as they walked together in the hallway. She pressed against his side, hands still clasped, enjoying the feeling of moving together as a unit. And she enjoyed the relative anonymity, not missing the jealous and downright mean glances from girls when she had walked with Brody, just as she got when she was with Finn. Tom, and the other composer at NYADA, Jerome Napier, didn't have the same star power with the groupies, apparently. And while NYADA students knew Rachel's name and reputation, few knew what she actually looked like. So it was refreshing to just be Tom and Rachel, walking hand-in-hand down the hall, being barely noticed.

They were headed for the rehearsal room, first to work on Tom's songwriting, and then Rachel's dance practice.

"You are going to stay and watch me dance, right?"

"You bet," he said, grinning. She felt a thrill, because she had decided to wear her best dancewear. He sat at the piano as Rachel dropped her bag on a bench. "I have something to show you."

The last time he said that to her, good things happened. Her eyes widened.

"You have the bridge done?" She clapped her hands when he nodded.

"Well, I'd at least like you to take a listen. Here's just the melody for it."

It was strong, and soaringly plaintive, and when she nodded in delight, he sang the lyrics:

_**Those voices never knew us**_

_**Those voices never cared**_

_**At all about our happiness**_

_**Or what our lives had shared**_

_**And yet I listened, baby**_

_**As if all of them knew**_

_**And turned my back on what we had,**_

_**And told you we were through**_

He looked up from the keyboard to see her smiling, but with a furrow in her brow.

"It's beautiful," she mused, "but the second line in the second part… I think it needs an extra syllable…" She cocked her head to one side, adding, with a grin, "May I?"

Tom grinned back, clearly excited. "Go for it!"

_**And yet I listened, baby**_

_**As if all of them JUST knew**_

Rachel also leaned on the word "knew", almost sneering it out, then finished up, strong and clear:

_**And turned my back on what we had,**_

_**And told you we were through**_

"What do you think?"

They both exchanged the same "Oh yeah, that's it" look. She had barely gotten the words out when Tom had risen from the piano, and gathered her in his arms, kissing her fiercely. His ardor and her joy in singing his music brought her reserve down suddenly, and Rachel Barbra Berry found herself mauling Tom Foley back, in equal measure. They had tapped into the same vein at the same time, that boundless joy of creating art together, and nothing, not even epic grief, could stand in its way. It was the same rooted passion that drove her and Finn to dizzying heights, she fleetingly thought, expecting guilt to stop what she was doing with Tom dead in its tracks, as the memories flooded in, of the duets and nights making love after performances. But the guilt never came, even though she thought she could feel Finn's presence somehow. She was alive, and needed to live, so she turned her attention back to the living.

Her tongue aggressively hunted his, fingers entangled in his curls, while his hands dropped to the small of her back before almost bending her back over the piano, one hand beginning a tentative slide underneath the waistband of the close-fitting grey sweatpants she wore over her leotard.

"Lower", she panted, and both of his hands slid down to cup her buttocks. It was as if her skin was electrified, and little shocks traveled throughout her, as his hands caressed the taut fabric that firmly encased her body. She soon felt him hard against her lower belly, insistent, his breathing coming in gasps. But then he pulled back slightly, chuckling, and when she looked inquiringly at him, her mind dazed with pleasure, he cocked his head towards the door.

"We forgot to close it."

They sat on the mat, backs against the wall, after closing the door, Rachel resting her head on Tom's shoulder. She was rubbing his chest with one hand. She was almost glad they stopped when they did, because she wanted some time to digest a new reality: making love with Tom had just moved from a possibility she had been considering, to an inevitability. She wanted time to enjoy that fact, and how it made her feel.

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"Are you a virgin?"

"I used to be." That earned him a playful punch on the arm.

"Was it with Sandrine?"

"Yes. It was the first time for both of us."

Rachel paused in the rubbing.

"Finn was my first… but I wasn't his." He reached his arm around her shoulders. "Santana was."

He blinked in surprise. She could feel him trying to work out the relationship calculus in his head.

"There's probably an insanely complicated story behind _that._"

"You have no idea."

She bit her lip, anxious now, waiting for him to pull away, now that she had revealed yet another layer of herself. Yet she couldn't hide anything from him; he was too open and honest, and deserved the truth about her past.

His arm remained about her, and he leaned his head in to rest on hers, then kissed her cheek.

"Someday, over a few beers, you're going to have to tell it to me. Then I'll tell you about the threesome I almost had."

"The WHAT?" She giggled, thinking he was joking.

"It's more innocent-on my part, at least-than it sounds, but it's a good story nonetheless. And true."

"I said you were a storyteller, didn't I?"

"You did, indeed."

She kissed him then, with affection, and trust, and felt stronger and grounded. Then she got up, and peeled off her sweatpants.

"I want to dance now. And I want you to watch." She grinned wickedly, pulling her dance shoes out of the bag. "I know you've been dying to see what my ass looks like in this leotard—and with these heels."

"Good grief, am I that transparent?" His return grin was just as wicked.

"I'm learning to read you, Foley. Like a book."

XXXXxxx

He sat in the seats with Barry during the final run-through for Gwyllym that night. The orchestra gave the performance added depth, as Rachel and Gwyllym took their characters to places no decent living person thought possible, given just a libretto and some music. No, the emotions behind the story had to be supplied by the actors, with their expressions and the nuance in their voices. They drowned the ceremony of innocence, all right, with ghostly malice and depravity. Barry nudged him during the performance, whispering, "Good God, this is amazing!" But Tom barely heard, because the hair on the back of his neck was standing straight up, as Quint and Miss Jessel joined together at the end:

_**Day by day the bars we break,**_

_**Break the love that laps them round,**_

_**Cheat the careful watching eyes,**_

_**"The ceremony**_

_**of innocence is drowned"**_

They went for a walk in Battery Park afterwards, still high from the performance. For Rachel, the past did not intrude—she felt free to walk with Tom, enjoying his company, exploring these new feelings about him, even though she knew they had a common root, this joy of creating art together. At times she felt Finn's presence again, but it was as if he was there to softly cheer her on. Could it be she had finally reached a tipping point, a threshold where now her joy in being alive was greater than her grief? It could be, she thought. Her memories of being with Finn, which for the longest time had brought nothing but pain, were, more and more, becoming what they should have been: treasured, precious, peaceful. And she had met someone who wasn't intimidated by them in the least. Tom Foley accepted her for what she was and what she had. They adored making music—together. She had to think that her Finn would have wanted her to meet somebody like him.

"There's a lot of history here for me." They were standing in the spot when Finn found out she had kissed Brody. "One of my lowest moments with Finn…"

Tom listened, patiently.

"And yet, when I'm here with you, I can look back at it almost objectively now. You know, as a part of my past, painful or not." She chewed on her lip a moment. "Maybe you keep me looking forward somehow, I don't know." Then she kissed him. "I like it."

She had been so tired. The weight of her past, the sheer emotional mass of her grief had dominated her life for so long that she had almost regarded the chronic state of exhaustion as normal, her lot in life. But now she was beginning to feel stronger, refreshed, as if from a long, well-deserved nap.

Tom took her by the shoulders. She felt his gaze.

"You're beautiful," he said. And talented. And honest. And you deserve to be happy. And I'd like to make you happy."

She kissed him.

"You're doing a great job, so far."

"And you have a great ass."

This is going to be fun, she thought.

_**A/N: Tom's lyrics are mine. The opera lyrics are from "The Turn of The Screw", composed by Benjamin Britten, with libretto by **__**Myfanwy Piper**_


	9. Chapter 9

She lay in bed quietly that Saturday morning. Yes, it was time to get up and start the coffee, but not just yet. She gathered her pillow up and lay on her right side, watching the soft shadows the morning light cast on the rumples and the pillows on the empty half of the bed. It seemed laziness to just lie there, but Rachel didn't know quite what to make of what had just happened.

She had awakened thinking of Tom.

**XXXxxx**

Kurt, Santana, Tom and Barry sat several rows back in the auditorium. In the front row were two executives from the Royal Opera, along with Professor Jenks and Carmen Tibideaux. Rachel and Gwyllym each stood at a mike on stage in front of the chamber orchestra. They weren't in costume. Gwyllym was dressed in a tuxedo, and Rachel wore a glamorous long black dress ("paid for by the Opera Department!")

Carmen stood up.

"It is a great honor to welcome our guests from the Royal Opera: its Director of Opera, Karl Hostein, and Musical Director, Antonio Pappano. It has long been a tradition between NYADA's Opera department and several prominent opera companies to have these exhibitions as a way for our students to prepare for their formal auditions later in the year. Mr. Gwyllym Evans is one of our best students, and we are proud to present his talent to you gentlemen.

"I would like, at this time, to thank the people responsible for making this possible. Professor Richard Jenks, the head of our Opera Department has taken Gwyllym personally under his wing, that is how much we believe in the talent of this remarkable young man."

Jenks nodded, smiling proudly at Gwyllym.

"I'd also like to thank two very special artists, who worked with Mister Evans to prepare for this exhibition. First, Ms Rachel Berry, who stepped in almost at the last minute when our soprano Jessica Wells fell ill. She has no operatic training, but was the lead in a major Broadway production, and is one of our finest talents here at NYADA. I think you'll find her Miss Jessell more than adequate tonight."

Rachel bowed graciously, with her beaming smile.

"I'd also like to thank another of our best students, Tom Foley, who is in our composer program, and who also happens to be a talented pianist in his own right. He provided the musical support for the singers throughout the preparation. Stand up, Tom."

Tom stood and waved. Santana, who was sitting next to him, patted his hand as he sat down. "You go, Warren!" she whispered. He was glad Rachel had mentioned she thought he looked like Warren Zevon.

"And now, without further ado, let's begin."

Kurt settled back as drums announced the scene. Gywllym and Rachel stood, heads down. Then Miss Jessel raised her head and regarded Quint,. She began singing, sad and confused:

_**Why did you call me**_

_**from my schoolroom dreams? **_

Gwyllym looked up then, madness in his eyes:

_**I call? Not I!**_

_**You heard the terrible sound**_

_**of the wild swan's wings.**_

Rachel's Miss Jessel transformed slowly from dazed sadness to reawakened lust:

_**Cruel!**_

_**Why did you beckon me to your side? **_

She asked the question, but knew the answer. Gwyllym's Quint eyed her knowingly:

_**I beckon? No, not I!**_

_**Your beating heart to your own**_

_**passions lied.**_

But with the lust came the guilt, for the price being with him would cost. And anger. And despair. Rachel's facial expressions were a marvel as they flowed from one state into the other

_**Betrayer! Where were you**_

_**when in the abyss I fell?**_

Quint's ghost denies it all.

_**Betrayer? No, not I!**_

_**I waited for the sound**_

_**of my own last bell.**_

She asks him what he wants_**. **_

_**And now what do you seek?**_

_**QUINT: I seek a friend.**_

_**Miss JESSEL: She is here!**_

Rachel gave her character a look of hope, that maybe he truly wanted to be with her, even in death. But no. He laughs in her face:

_**No! - self-deceiver! **_

She tries, one last time…

_**Ah! Quint, Quint, do you forget?**_

But Quint reveals his true plan:

_**I seek a friend -**_

_**Obedient to follow where I lead,**_

_**slick as a juggler's mate**_

_**to catch my thought,**_

_**proud, curious, agile, he shall feed**_

_**my mounting power.**_

_**Then to his bright subservience**_

_**I'll expound**_

_**the desperate passions**_

_**of a haunted heart,**_

_**and in that hour**_

_**"The ceremony**_

_**of innocence is drowned"**_

He wants the boy Miles, not her. And knows Miles would not go willingly without Flora, his sister. And Miss Jessell, in her eternal loneliness and damnation, decides she, too, must have a companion, if she cannot have Quint, and even if it means corrupting two innocent souls, dragging them into hell as well, Rachel pulled out all of the stops, infusing her character with appalled horror and resignation:

_**I too must have a soul to share my woe.**_

_**Despised, betrayed,**_

_**unwanted she must go**_

_**forever to my joyless spirit bound,**_

_**"The ceremony**_

_**of innocence is drowned"**_

And the unholy plot is hatched, as Rachel and Gwllym brought the two ghosts together :

_**Day by day the bars we break,**_

_**break the love that laps them round,**_

_**cheat the careful watching eyes,**_

_**"The ceremony**_

_**of innocence is drowned"**_

Amidst the applause and congratulations, Rachel and Tom met up and kissed in front of everyone. Kurt had noticed Tom's almost complete absorption in Rachel's performance, and knew she had found someone who truly understood and admired her talent. Finn had too, of course, but Tom brought an added layer of knowledgeable sophistication to the table. He could challenge Rachel like Finn could, but perhaps in different, more expansive ways. Deep in his heart, Kurt knew that Finn would have wanted Rachel to eventually find someone worthy of her. When it came to his Rachel, Finn was, truly, selfless, unlike the hilariously self-absorbed Jesse and the pretty, soulless Brody Weston. If there was an afterlife, Kurt thought, Finn would approve of her choice. Santana noticed the tears forming in his eyes.

"She looks happy, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she certainly does. And I think Finn would happy with her choice, too."

That brought tears to Santana's eyes as well. "Dammit, Hummel. Look what you made me do." Then she laughed. "Bets on when his shaving gear shows up in our bathroom?"

Kurt laughed too, and wiped his eyes. Rachel and Tom were holding hands, talking with Gwyllym, Barry, Carmen, and Professor Jenks. Carmen seemed pleased by what she saw, but there was something else in her look he couldn't quite fathom.

Kurt wondered what it was.

**XXXxxx**

A few days later, Rachel was joking with him at the piano in the rehearsal room. They were celebrating the submission of his song for review in class with a contest: Tom would play snippets of standards and Rachel had to give the name of the song, and sing it. Oh, and if he stumped her, she was buying dinner.

"Game on, Foley." She was born for this kind of Trivial Pursuit.

Three songs in ("Stormy Weather", "All the Things You Are", and "On the Sunny Side of the Street"), and Rachel was on a roll.

"C'mon, Tom, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were letting me win."

"Maybe I just want to buy you dinner. Or listen to you sing." She gave him a kiss for that.

"How about this?" Tom began a pretty but quirky tune, decorated with little piano flourishes, but froze after a few seconds. "Maybe something else," he said, but she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Tom, if I could sing 'My Man' eight times a week for two years, I can sing 'Stardust'."

"Would you sing it for me? It's probably my all-time favorite song."

She reveled in the newness of their relationship; how it was clear she had so much to learn about him. And how she wanted to know.

"It would be my pleasure."

He began again with some Hoagy Carmichael-style noodlings, and she came in perfectly:

_**And now the purple dusk of twilight time**_

_**Steals across the meadows of my heart**_

_**High up in the sky the little stars climb**_

_**Always reminding me that we're apart**_

_**You wandered down the lane and far away**_

_**Leaving me a song that will not die**_

_**Love is now the stardust of yesterday**_

_**The music of the years gone by**_

_**Sometimes I wonder why I spend**_

_**The lonely night dreaming of a song**_

_**The melody haunts my reverie**_

_**And I am once again with you**_

_**When our love was new**_

_**And every kiss an inspiration**_

_**But that was long ago**_

_**Now my consolation**_

_**Is in the stardust of a song**_

She felt Finn's presence, but there was no sadness, because at that moment she was caught up in the beauty of the melody, and the fact she was singing a song to a lovely, decent man. And there was no jealousy, no anger, because the dead are beyond those things. They only love, and she felt Finn's love enveloping her, too. Her eyes shone.

_**Beside a garden wall**_

_**When stars are bright**_

_**You are in my arms**_

_**The nightingale tells his fairy tale**_

_**of paradise where roses grew**_

_**Though I dream in vain**_

_**In my heart it always will remain**_

_**My stardust melody**_

_**The memory of love's refrain**_

She ended the song smiling, and before he could get up, Rachel sat in his lap and kissed him, feeling a tear on his cheek. It touched her to think her singing had that kind of effect on him; it had been so long since she had seen that kind of reaction. She wanted to sing to him every day, because it was like singing to Finn, because when she sang to him she felt truly alive.

"That was beautiful, thank you."

"Anytime, Tom."

She got up and they began a technical discussion on how to sing that third verse. She was leaning on the piano, her head close to his, feeling alive again, when they heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," Tom called out.

It was Carmen Tibideaux, and a crowd of curious students. She had an envelope in her hand. Rachel, who knew it wasn't for her, because she and Carmen had an agreement, felt her heart swell with pride. Tom stood up, and Tibideaux silently handed the envelope to him.

"Hi Rachel," she said with a subtle wink as she turned to leave. Tom was speechless.

"Hi, Madame Tibideaux"

The crowd was surprised. Composers rarely, if ever, got a golden envelope. Several came in to congratulate him, and Rachel, standing by the piano, letting Tom have his moment, was unprepared when he went to her, swept her up in his arms and kissed her deeply in front of everybody.

There was smiling and laughter, and when the others had left, and they were alone again, sitting on the mat, backs to the wall, she kissed him.

"Congratulations, Mister Foley." He looked happy, but also somewhat overwhelmed, and let out a huge sigh.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's just been a GREAT day."

"I'll say," Rachel said, ruffling his hair. "You got a freaking Golden Envelope! You're going to kick ass at that showcase!"

He was shaking his head, with a broad grin. "No, I'm not. At least, I'm not going to win it."

"What do you mean?" She'd never seen him lose confidence in his talent, despite his remarkable lack of self-absorption. And why was he grinning?

"I'm not going to win because I need to ask you something."

"Okay…" She looked at him expectantly.

"I'll be presenting my new song, and I'll play piano." He looked at her over his glasses, shyly. "But I trust only one person to sing it. And if she says yes after I ask her, it wouldn't be fair to the other kids in the competition."

It took a few moments before she comprehended what he just said. It almost defied understanding. A NYADA student had just told her he'd _chosen her_ over winning a Winter Showcase competition.

"You..you can't do that."

"_Bien au contraire, mademoiselle, je peux certainement_."

"What?"

"Can."

"Can't."

"Just did."

"What if I say 'no'?"

"You know the song intimately, from the inside out. You have to say 'yes': the power of art compels you."

Even though Rachel knew he had made a joke, it was clear he knew her. She took a breath, and it felt like a flood of cool mountain air filling her chest.

He had _chosen her._

_Her_.

"Yes."

**A/N: opera lyrics are from **_**The Turn of The Screw**_**, by Benjamin Britten, libretto by ****Myfanwy Piper. The song lyrics are from "Stardust", written by Hoagy Carmicheal & Mitchell Parrish.**


	10. Chapter 10

Kurt was setting the table, while Rachel put the finishing touches to her vegetarian spaghetti sauce that even dedicated omnivores like her roommates loved, and Santana prepared the salad.

"So, when's Warren arriving?" Santana actually looked eager to see him.

"He's on his way. He had to wait until his roommate's classes were over and had time to stop by the liquor store for us, since Toby's twenty-one. Tom wanted us to try an Italian wine that he loves."

"I thought he was half-French, or something." Santana looked puzzled.

"Well, the French do eat Italian food," Kurt sighed.

"And adore wine." Rachel put down her spoon to check her phone. "He's downstairs!"

Kurt and Santana winked at each other as Rachel raced to the door. She flung it open and immediately kissed him.

"Mmm…is this my appetizer?" She flashed him a sexy grin.

"Hey guys," Tom waved and dropped his backpack on the couch as Rachel took his tan corduroy coat. He was wearing his trademark white shirt and jeans; Rachel insisted it be casual (she was wearing a blue t-shirt and black yoga pants).

Santana and Kurt came in to welcome him.

"Congratulations!" Kurt said, shaking his hand.

"Thanks." Santana hugged him, raising Rachel's and Kurt's eyebrows.

"So, where's this fancy wine?" she asked.

Tom looked puzzled. "Fancy? No. It's _good,_ but not fancy." He pulled two bottles of chianti from the pack and handed them to Santana.

"Hmmm… _Frescobaldi Nipozzano Chianti Rufina Riserva. _Sounds fancy to me."

He shrugged and grinned. "At only fifteen bucks a bottle it's a bargain, then."

Santana laughed. "I like you, Warren."

Kurt noticed how Tom enthusiastically delved into the meal, even though he knew for a fact that Tom ate meat—he saw him in the lounge once tearing into a huge pastrami sandwich.

"You have no idea how famished I am. I skipped lunch to polish the music for my song for the showcase." Rachel looked at him, and he just smiled. "Don't worry, you'll like it."

"It was great as is."

Kurt poured the wine, and raised a glass.

"To Tom Foley— congratulations again on the Showcase." They clinked glasses and sipped.

"Damn, Warren! You weren't kidding about this wine. Fifteen bucks a bottle? Seriously? "

"I'll have Toby buy some more, and I'll bring it by."

They ate heartily, and talked about the showcase. Kurt didn't want to dwell on Tom's insistence that Rachel sing his music. Santana, of course, had no such inhibitions.

"You can't tell me you go to NYADA, Warren. From the kids I've seen from there, you'd harvest and sell your own mother's organs to the Mob to win the Winter Showcase." She looked over at Rachel. "No offence, Berry. You're special."

Tom looked down, blushing. Kurt thought for a moment he'd been offended. But Rachel was completely cool, and then Tom looked up, shyly.

"As a composer, I'm very picky about how my songs are presented. The choice of artist to interpret my work is critical, since I'm not much of a vocalist."

("He's great" Rachel mouthed, pretending to shield her lips from him with her hand).

"In the case of my song, the bridge is the emotional key. Rachel," he turned to her, "You recognized that when you emphasized certain words over others when you sang it, without any prompting from me, remember?"

"I did?" She looked surprised.

He slapped his hand on the table, then looked around. "There! You see? Rachel doesn't even remember doing it. It was _instinctual._ " He paused for a sip of wine. "What's more important for me than winning the showcase is the impression on the audience. None of the other singers in NYADA can interpret it better."

"How do you know that?" Rachel looked skeptical. He blushed again.

"I didn't tell you yet—in songwriting class they actually brought a few singers in to try it (for other student's songs as well). You were the only one that got it right-." He stopped. Rachel was giving him a not-so-happy look. "What?"

"You let some song sluts touch your song?"

"What?" He looked confused; Santana and Kurt's wine glasses had stopped halfway to their lips.

"Was that bitch Anne Neilson one of them?"

"What?"

"What country are you from?" The temperature in the room had just dropped. Rachel looked furious. Tom looked thoroughly lost.

"Country? What?" He began to stutter nervously.

"'What' isn't any country I've ever heard of. Do they speak English in What?"

Kurt was about to rise in his chair to mediate, when Tom and Rachel couldn't keep straight faces, and began howling with laughter. Santana, who _had _seen _Pulp Fiction_ and caught on half-way through, fell over in her chair. She put her arm around Kurt.

"Kurt, baby, they're pulling our legs."

"Actually," Tom said, "How did you know I've even seen that movie?"

"It's in your DVD collection at your place. I snooped when you excused yourself to the bathroom." Rachel smiled triumphantly. "It was one of Finn's favorite movies. We probably watched it as much as we watched _Funny Girl_. " A pointed look at Santana. "Didn't I say you'd be shocked at what I did in those knee socks?"

"Yes, you did, Berry. _Salud_!" The women clinked glasses.

Kurt, relieved, watched Tom closely. He still showed no discomfort when Rachel talked about Finn. Maybe, just maybe, this guy was a true keeper. It was strange thinking back on Rachel and Finn, and their rich private life that nobody knew about: the intimate conversations and private jokes they shared, the secrets and the whispered promises. The sweetness. The ache in his chest over them began to ease somewhat, seeing something similar developing between Rachel and Tom.

"You know, Rachel," Tom said, helping himself to some more of her spaghetti, "You've talked about the way you used to dress, but I've never actually seen it."

She looked away for a second, then said, "I'll be right back."

Santana poured him some more wine. "You'll need this."

She returned a few minutes later and sat, not saying anything. Picking up her glass she swallowed some wine.

"I was going to bring out my photo album and show you how I used to look. Is it okay if I don't do that right now?" She looked fragile.

Santana and Kurt exchanged worried glances, but Tom just tenderly placed his hand on hers.

"No problem." She smiled immediately, and after a few more bites of food, recovered her composure.

They drew lots to see who would clear the dishes. Strangely, both Santana and Kurt lost, so Rachel and Tom went into the living room area with their wine.

"Hurry up, you guys! Tom brought a movie!"

"Which one?" Kurt asked.

"_To Have and Have Not_. Rachel says she's never seen it."

Kurt looked ecstatic. "The movie where Bogart met Bacall. Normally, I'd love to. But Santana and I are heading out."

Rachel looked back over the couch. "You are? You're not going to watch with us?"

"Sorry, Warren, Berry. You're on your own. Kurt says Isabel is having a late night party and says she has 'people' for both of us to meet." Kurt grinned.

"Is that okay, Tom?" Kurt asked, being polite.

"Sure, I guess. Though I do enjoy your company," he called out, and winked out of Rachel's view.

Santana went into her room and emerged in a great red sheath dress, and grabbed her coat. She followed Kurt through the door, ruffling Tom's hair along the way.

"Behave!" she sang out as the door closed.

Rachel got up and put a DVD in the player, then took their glasses back and refilled them.

"I'm so excited about the showcase. I'll do your song justice, I promise."

He clinked glasses ,swallowed some wine, then gathered her close to him as she tucked her legs in.

"I know."

"And I'm sorry about the photo album."

"No apologies, remember?"

Rachel raised up and kissed him, long and sweet. "Thank you."

She clicked the remote.

She loved the chemistry between Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, and Walter Brennan's sensitive portrayal of the rummy Eddie. But when Bacall sings in the hotel bar with the piano player, Cricket, Tom kissed her cheek and said, "Do you know who the piano player is?" Rachel shook her head. "Hoagy Carmichael!"

"He's my favorite character," he enthused.

"I wonder why." She giggled.

"Did you know Ian Fleming said that James Bond looked like Hoagy Carmichael?"

"Hey! You're supposed to be _my_ fanboy, remember?"

"I remember." He clicked the television off, and they began kissing in earnest.

She untucked her legs, stretching out, facing him, as Tom kissed her hair, then each of her eyes softly, slowly, moving down her face, to her lips. He remained there for some time, her tasting the wine on his tongue, as his teeth nibbled her lips. Then to her jaw, trailing down her neck, while she played in his hair, moaning slightly. Tom propped himself on one elbow, and his free hand rubbed her back in circles. Her hands moved down to cradle his face, and she kissed his lips, moaning in his mouth when his hand moved down her back, slipping under her waistband, this time under the lacy panties as well, over her buttocks, and caressed the damp space between her thighs.

"I've been that way since you texted me you were downstairs" she murmured.

Her free hand trailed down to the front of his jeans. She hesitated, just for a moment, then touched him, marveling at what she knew was a silky hardness beneath the soft denim, remembering. His breathing quickened.

"I'm this way all of the time around you."

She chuckled throatily, enjoying her woman's power to arouse him. Rachel wanted him, wanted him now, knowing she could trust him with her body, wondering how he would feel inside her. And she felt Finn's love for her then, and her love for him, intact, protected, even as her feelings grew for Tom. You're alive, she felt Finn telling her, please go and live that life, please make my love for you mean something more than just a memory. I will, Rachel promised him. I will.

"I haven't been with a man for a long time," she whispered, resting her cheek against his.

"Neither have I," Tom whispered back, and her anxiety fled as they laughed together. He made her feel safe and wanted.

"Stay with me tonight."

She arose from the couch, took his hand, and led him to her room, where he mysteriously, wonderfully, defied her expectations.

Tom was slow and deliberate, carefully managing to touch, with fingers and lips, almost every inch of her body, wringing electricity to her surface, but not explosive, empty fireworks, like Brody, or blinding passion, as with Finn. Tom was more like the Moon to her ocean, slowly gathering her to him, body and soul, like a patient tide, then entering her quietly, exquisitely, almost as if he wanted her to suddenly realize he had filled her. He whispered words she didn't know, yet innately understood, as she brought him close to her as well, and, almost without knowing it, found herself moving perfectly in sync. And when her moment came, clutching him to her, there was no shattering climax, no immense release of tension, only peace, warm and gentle, diffusing throughout her body, as if she had dissolved, mixing with him and everything. And her sorrow dissipated with it for a blessed while, as she lay afterwards in his arms, wondering how she had carried it so long by herself.

Neither of them said a word. Words were simply poor substitutes for thoughts, now; Tom and Rachel lay in each other's thoughts as well as each other's arms, unfettered by this world.

The curtain-filtered street light fell on them from her window as he stroked her hair slowly, bringing on the kind of sleep she had almost given up ever having again. Peacefully entwined with this lovely man, she felt safe and delivered.

And when she prayed, Tom kissed the top of her head.


	11. Chapter 11

Rachel awoke slowly in the morning light. Memories of the night before flooded her thoughts, and she smiled, eyes still closed, then stretched lazily, expecting to come in contact with Tom. Her eyes flew open. He wasn't there. She ran her hands over the sheets where he had been last night. They were cool. And his clothes were gone. Panicked, as some of her darkest memories pierced her consciousness, she grabbed her robe. It was Saturday. He had no plans to go anywhere, she knew, so he should have been in bed with her now; why had he left?

The desperate feeling of abandonment was so strong she forgot to tie her robe, and yanked back the curtain to her room, only to see Tom at the kitchen table, peacefully reading his iPad, a cup of coffee at his elbow, looking up at her, at first with a smile, and then concern, because she was standing before him, legs apart, hair wild, chest heaving, face scored with anguish. And nude, but for a fully-open robe.

He was up in an instant, and rushed over, enveloping her in his arms before she could speak, holding her to him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm here." And now she felt ridiculous and needy, and why should he be sorry when he had no idea she'd react this way, and yet he knew that's what was wrong and was he psychic or something? She let him guide her back to her room, and he closed the curtain, gently removed her robe, and tucked her in bed. Then he undressed and slid under the covers with her, holding her head against his chest.

"I should have poured you some coffee first, dammit," he said, but she shook her head silently. She was trembling. A few moments later he asked "Are you okay? Your heart rate is finally coming down."

She nodded.

"I feel silly now."

"Please don't. I assume you thought I had left without saying anything?"

"Silly, wasn't I?"

"Not if it has happened to you before." When she didn't answer right away, he said, "It has, hasn't it?"

Rachel nodded without speaking. To remember finding Finn gone from her bed that awful day left her speechless.

"Okay," he said, kissing her, "No worries." He was rubbing her back with his left hand, caressing her cheek with his right, and wearing a calm smile.

When he didn't ask for details, she was able to completely relax, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She felt accepted, not judged, safe and warm.

Even loved.

**XXXxxxx**

They were to meet his parents that night at their hotel. In the meantime, she made Tom breakfast (pancakes), drank the coffee he made (excellent), grabbed a change of evening clothes (a short, but not-too-short, blue dress and heels), stopped by his place for his choice of clothes (snappy black jacket and pants), then splurged on a town car (where they made out continually in the back seat) to take them to NYADA to work on the showcase and the musical.

Rachel had Tom's song down perfectly by now. It even had a title ("Listen to You"). She sat in his lap after the last run-through.

"I can't wait to meet your parents. Are they only here through Tuesday afternoon?"

"Yes. The conference ends Tuesday and they have to fly back right way." He had a conspiratorial look. "Don't tell anyone this, but they don't always see eye-to-eye with my brothers on how to run the clinic. They get antsy when the two of them are left in charge." He chuckled.

They got back to work. Tom had blocked out the first act of Mount Olympus Blues, noting where songs appeared, amidst blocks of dialogue. He seemed to be in more of a dialogue-writing mood that morning, so Rachel sat cross-legged on the mat, reading a book for a class. Eventually, he pushed the laptop away from him and joined her, leaning against the wall, closing his eyes. She took the opportunity to crawl into his lap and rest her head on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look tired. Like you've been up all night." She giggled. He smiled and caressed her hair with his hand, eyes still closed.

"But really. How are you?"

His eyes opened. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

She snuggled as close to him as she could.

"I once told Finn that my personality, while exciting and full of surprises, was also high maintenance. I bring even more baggage to the table now than I did then, though I have to admit, Finn took off many of my worst edges, and for the first time made me want to be better for someone else, not just myself. You never seem to be fazed by me, even at some of my worst moments. You always manage to say the right thing, and anticipate my feelings. You have more empathy than anyone I've ever met." She kissed his cheek. "You make me want to be better for you, too. That must be exhausting. So I want you to tell me honestly: how are you?"

He pulled her to him. She had hoped he wasn't one of those guys who couldn't talk about himself; her instincts told her he wasn't.

"At dinner last night I said I was a composer, but that only means that I write music. I don't think composers are any more alike than singers in their motivations; we all have different things that motivate us. I love the act of creation, yes, but even more I like the collaborative effort that brings my music to life. I don't have the exquisite instrument that you do, and nothing thrills me more than to hear you sing. But you have something even more than just a gorgeous voice: you have a finely tuned artistic sense. That enables you to get to the emotional heart of my music. I can trust my music in your hands; I've never said that about anyone else before. It makes you special and precious to me." He kissed the top of her head. "But here's the thing—" She could feel his earnestness now, his need for her to _understand_. "—you don't maintain this artistic sensitivity in some compartment within you. No. Instead, it draws from everything you are: your whole life, the experiences of your childhood, the influence of your parents, and yes, even the people you have loved, and the pain of loss. All those factors have contributed to your world view, and thus inform your artistic choices, the choices that ultimately interpret my music like nobody else. Your love for Finn, and his love for you, is part of that. If you were to deny that love, it would destroy parts of you that help bring my creations to life."

He paused, and hugged her even tighter.

"But there's more. Your relationship with Finn, and its legacy—including the pain- within you also help define this talented, gorgeous, generous woman that I am coming to…adore." She could feel the tenderness in his voice, but did notice his stumbling over that last word. "So I don't regard anything about you as a burden. Does that answer your question?"

She thought back to what Mr. Schue had told her all those years ago.

"You adore me?"

"How could I not?"

"Okay." She smiled and cuddled as close to him as she could. It was obvious what he wanted to say, and it was equally obvious why he didn't say it. He didn't want to spook her by expressing it so openly. He wanted her to ease into the realization that he loved her.

_He loved her. As is_.

Rachel carefully wrapped that knowledge up and stored it away, in her heart, next to Finn's. There was no chafing, nor was there pain. Instead, there was a growing sense of well-being and balance. She was beginning to understand something: there might be room for both. Maybe that's what Tom meant by not wanting to take Finn's place. And maybe that was why Finn was telling her to live, because she might have found the one person she could love as much as him, someone she had almost been convinced didn't exist. For some time Rachel had felt that anyone she met would always have to take second place in her heart. Maybe Finn had been telling her that wasn't what he wanted. It certainly wasn't what Tom deserved.

When that knowledge was tucked away, precious and safe, she allowed herself to marvel at how, for the first time since Finn's passing, a man had said he loved her, and she didn't want to run away and hide.

**XXXxxxx**

His parents stood at their table, waving.

"I forgot to ask if you like French food," Tom said, worriedly.

"Don't worry," Rachel murmured. "I'm good."

"Mom, Dad, this is Rachel Berry."

Amélie Foley, a tiny, dark-haired woman with dancing blue eyes, kissed Rachel on both cheeks "_Bon soir_, Rachel! I'm so pleased to meet you." She spoke with a soft French accent. Bob Foley, a slighter, gray-haired version of his youngest son, hugged her. "Tom has told us all about you."

"I'm honored," Rachel said, as Tom got the same treatment from his parents.

They sat down, and Bob, Tom, and Rachel perused their menus, while Amélie scanned the wine list.

"She knows what she wants to eat already," Bob said, winking.

Amélie looked up. "Rachel, Tom says you prefer vegetarian dishes, _non_? "

"That's right, Mrs. Foley," Rachel replied. His mother beamed.

"Then you and I will share a wonderful dish they serve here: Semolina and Gruyere _Quenelles_ (Dumplings) in tomato sauce." Rachel looked delighted.

Bob smiled. "Tom, do you want our usual?"

Tom nudged her. "Dad and I usually order Chateaubriand, a beautiful steak in shallot and wine sauce, which serves two."

"Never mind zem, Rachel." His mother rolled her eyes. "They are in a rut."

"_Amélie_, _quel genre de vin pensez-vous_?" Bob asked his wife.

Tom nudged Rachel. "They're deciding on the wine. Just watch. It's hilarious."

Amélie and Bob began a deep discussion in French, with Amélie insisting on what sounded like Pinot Noir, and Bob nodding, but perusing the wine list and tossing out other suggestions.

"Dad thinks a _Beaujolais_ would be better, simpler, softer, ideal for vegetarian dishes as well as meat," Tom whispered, "Mom wants to be bold and experiment." He chuckled. "Imagine growing up with these discussions every night."

Rachel fondly remembered her dads arguing over cocktails.

"What do you think?" Rachel asked him. "You obviously have great taste when it comes to wine."

"I see merit in both." Tom leaned forward. "Mom, Dad? Why not order a bottle of each? That way Rachel can see who's right."

They both looked up, and Rachel gave them her cutest grin, and they laughed.

"We should have named him 'Solomon'," Amélie said.

"What is the conference about?" Rachel asked.

"Tropical medicine," Bob replied." We don't practice it anymore, of course, but we do belong to The American Society of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene, and we were asked to give a talk on our experience in Cambodia. Tom said he told you about that."

"Yes, he did. Well, I'm just glad you survived the experience. He said you both contracted severe malaria, that must have been awful."

Tom had warned Rachel about his parents' appearance. "They may appear frail, but that's just the after-effects of the malaria. Actually, they are the strongest people I know."

"It wasn't all bad," Amélie chimed in. "We worked for _Medicins Sans Frontieres—_Doctors Without Borders—at the time, and when we fell ill they took care of us at their main hospital in Geneva." She had a dreamy look. "It was right on the lake, and we used to sit in wheelchairs together, just enjoying the peace and beauty. It was our honeymoon."

"Tom told me you were married in Cambodia." Both of them smiled fondly.

"_Oui_," Amélie said. "My wedding dress was the only set of jungle fatigues I owned that wasn't falling apart and looked halfway clean."

"We spent our wedding night under a mosquito net," Bob joked.

During dinner his parents wanted to know all about her show, and what it was like being a Broadway star so young, and did she enjoy going back to school? Amélie was curious how she and Tom met, and laughed when Rachel said she had been miffed with him at first. She loved how Tom asked to try some of her quenelles, and she sampled his roast potatoes and baby carrots, pronouncing them delicious. She preferred the Pinot Noir, and Bob sighed, saying Amélie would be insufferable now. Tom's mother winked at her.

She loved them.

The talk drifted to Thanksgiving. Tom's sister and her husband were coming down from San Francisco. Rachel said she was going to spend it in Ohio with her dads. Then she asked what had been lingering in her mind since the morning.

"Mr. and Mrs Foley, I was wondering if I could ask a huge favor of you." She felt like she was asking the impossible, given how close-knit his family seemed to be. They looked at her, expectantly.

"I was wondering if it would be okay to ask Tom to come to Ohio and meet my parents for Thanksgiving, assuming he would consider it, of course."

She quickly looked to his face for a reaction. All three of them surprised her.

"I'd love to," he said. His parents nodded.

"Your dads need to meet Tom and give him the _talk_, Rachel," Bob said. She giggled. "I told Joanna's boyfriends I owned a .45 and a shovel."

"And if you like, we'd love to have you come to California for Christmas break", Amélie added.

She felt Tom's arm behind her. She had told him about Finn and Christmas, and knew he would understand if spending it outside Ohio was too much. But it occurred to her that spending it in California might be just what she needed.

"I'll talk it over with my dads," she said, smiling.

Rachel and Tom took the train home that night, huddled together on the seat, not saying much other than how she adored his parents. She let him know she wanted him to spend the night with her again, and he said she had read his, er, mind. Santana and Kurt were home, with a woman named Maggie, who Isabel had introduced to Santana. She and Santana were headed out to some show, but Santana warmed Rachel's heart by hugging Tom on her way out. Kurt decided he was in a French mood, and the three of them ended up watching _The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. _Tom corrected some of the subtitles, to Kurt's delight. Tom said he had an early crush on Catherine Denueve. Rachel whispered she'd make him forget Catherine Deneuve, later.

And she did.


	12. Chapter 12

They were strolling, arm-in-arm, through Central Park one late afternoon, enjoying the autumn air and golden, particulate sunlight. She marveled at how he somehow knew she liked cotton candy. He refused to reveal the source of his knowledge, enjoying her child-like delight as she ate the treat, and produced yet another clean handkerchief, a corner dipped in water from a fountain, to gently clean her face. Hers was a happier face, on the way to losing the burdens it used to bear; dark eyes filled more with light than sorrow. She somehow seemed younger to him lately, and so pretty it almost broke his heart.

She knew he was in love with her; the soft glances she gave him when she thought he wasn't watching, and a new intimacy to her touch told him that. And the fact she didn't shrink from that knowledge, but instead enthusiastically explored even more intimacy suggested Rachel might love him, too. But Tom was also well aware what an open acknowledgement of love for him would cost her, emotionally, and was content to let the most intense relationship of his life unfold.

Sandrine had been beautiful, intelligent, and sweet, but it was complementary interests that brought them together, as well as the French language and an instant sexual attraction. Her passion was literature, primarily French 19th century authors like Dumas, Flaubert, and George Sand. When they weren't exploring each other's bodies, she was teaching him the wonders of _Madame Bovary_ in the original French, or listening in fascination as he played Bach or his own compositions at the family piano. The relationship was good. But Tom knew Sandrine wasn't happy in the United States. She would openly bristle at the basic disrespect France received in the media. "'Cheese-eating surrender monkeys' my ass," she complained once, "Ask any German veteran of Verdun what he thought about the French, then." Ultimately, however, it was her love of the language, and wanting to live where it was spoken daily, that drove her decision to live in Paris, and convinced both of them to end it. None of their high school friends understood her decision, but he did. And it was a testament to their fundamental relationship that they actually remained good friends.

Rachel, on the other hand, dug deeper into him. It was now to the point where he couldn't imagine anyone else performing what he wrote. He hadn't exaggerated when he said none of the other NYADA singers did his song justice. All of them seemed eager to add something to what was already there, to put their own personal stamp on the song, which was fine with him, but he didn't think they understood what they were trying to modify in the first place (even though he had told them all the story about how the song came about). She alone got to the heart of it: not the regret or the sadness (that was the obvious, the low-hanging fruit), but the _shame,_ the self-loathing of someone who let himself listen to the wrong voices, the bewilderment-all of that was evident in her interpretation, and in a perfect balance. It was as if she had been inside his head when he was writing.

He had played her some of his earlier works, many with which he was not happy. One song in particular he considered his biggest disappointment. It had all the elements of a great song, he thought: an upbeat meditation on the joy of rediscovery, and a great melody. But it never seemed to gel, emotionally. Even Rachel was puzzled: "But I _love_ these lyrics," she said, shaking her head. At two in the morning he answered his phone to her excitedly whispering, "It's in the wrong _key,_ Tom, it's in the wrong key!" And she proceeded to sing it softly in a new key, and, as if by magic, everything fell into place. In fact, magic was how Tom had come to describe their artistic collaboration.

The word _muse_ had not come up, between either of them, yet it was clear to Tom that he and Rachel were beginning to draw musical inspiration from each other. He was beginning to think of her as the Clara Schumann to his Robert. Robert Schumann was the failed-pianist-turned-composer; Clara the finest pianist of her generation and an exquisite, dark beauty. Their love story was epic. The problem with the analogy was, of course, that Robert died young in an insane asylum, leaving her with seven children, and that Johannes Brahms, who started as a family friend, fell hopelessly in love with Clara, and remained so for over forty years. So maybe he was the Johannes Brahms of the analogy. But they never consummated the relationship, as far as anyone knew. Oh well. Better to keep the Clara Schumann analogy to himself.

Rachel Berry was gorgeous to him. Yet she looked nothing like Sandrine, who was tall and fair, with dark hair and gray eyes. Nor did she resemble any of the girls (all three) he dated at NYADA, all of whom were blonde for some reason. She was exotic, to his experience, with those dark eyes, full lips, and striking (not ugly) nose, while her penchant for short skirts and dresses, with those unbelievable legs and incredible behind made him to just want to get down and beg (with apologies to Elvis Costello). "You're such a _guy_," she teased, but he knew she enjoyed his appreciation of her body. He even applauded her choice _not _to wax, especially when she admitted it was partially because she had despised the prepubescent jokes directed towards her in middle and high school. "Pubic hair is a sign of sexual maturity in humans, Tom. I was damned if I was going to give anyone a reason to make one more joke."

The _guy_ in him wanted to protect her, to make her feel safe, and to be happy again. He had to constantly tell himself not to try and _fix_ things, because if there was one thing Rachel Berry was NOT, it was broken. Her reserves of strength rivaled those of his parents, whom he admired more than anyone else in the world. She did have her vulnerable moments, of course, and Tom made sure he was there for support, no questions asked.

They were approaching Bow Bridge, and Tom could see her anxiety begin to rise.

"Would you like to hear about my best time with Sandrine now?"

"I'd love to!" she was smiling, but he could see relief as well. He sat on a bench.

"I have to start by first telling you about my car."

But before that, he had to wipe a small blue cotton candy spot right in the corner of her mouth, then kiss that mouth as a matter of principle.

"Mmmm. You were saying something about a car?"

"Yes, but it's in California right now, in a garage that specializes in storing sports cars."

"Wait a minute- you drive a _sports car_?" She pretended to swoon.

"Yep. You see, my dad had an uncle named Lyndon Foley, who lived alone up in Carmel Valley, which is just a gorgeous area in the Central Coast of California—near Big Sur. He was fairly well-off, and died the summer after I first met Sandrine. My dad was named the executor of his estate. He and I drove up there to take an inventory of that estate, and next to the house was a tiny, well-kept garage. We located the key that opened the padlocked door, and found a car inside, up on blocks, under a tarp." He stopped to pet a beautiful Golden Retriever that, for some reason, found Tom interesting. The owner apologized, but Tom laughed. "I'm a dog person" he said.

"What kind of car was it? A Ferrari? A Maserati?"

Tom chuckled. "No, no…nothing like _that_. It was a 1967 Triumph TR250, in absolutely mint condition, with only 10,000 miles on it!"

"I have no idea what one of those even looks like," she said, and immediately Googled it on her phone.

"It's an English sports car, with clean, classic lines. See?"

" I like it", Rachel said.

"Baby, it's beautiful: white with a blue racing stripe across the hood. All of the fluids had been drained, the battery removed, and, like I said, it was up on blocks with the wheels sitting over in the corner. It had been sitting there for probably forty-plus years, but in the beautiful little garage, it looked almost new. The only problems were, the tires didn't look too good, and some of the leather upholstery had been gnawed at, by mice, I think, and a few electrical connections were bad. Dad and I bought some new tires and a battery we found at an import car specialist in Salinas, and got someone to check the connections out, and then we carefully refilled the fluids and replaced the battery and wheels. She turned over immediately, with this cool, throaty roar. Then I drove it to Salinas and had the upholstery retooled."

"Wow. So…"

"So then I called Sandrine, and talked her into flying to San Francisco on a cheap flight, and I picked her up at the airport, and we drove all the way back down to San Clemente on Pacific Coast Highway."

He kissed her again. "You haven't lived until you've seen the Big Sur in the moonlight with the top down."

"I guess I'll have to, then," Rachel murmured.

"You _could_, if you come home with me for Christmas break. We could drive up to Uncle Lyndon's place, which we inherited, and use as a vacation bungalow. Then we could hang out for a couple of days, see in the New Year, then drive back down."

She was suddenly in his lap. "That sounds fantastic." And she kissed _him_, this time.

"Think about it," and Tom winked. "Now, you want to tell me about your epic date with Finn?"

She shook her head.

"I want to know how you came to get the car, and not your brothers or sister."

"I took advantage of my status as the late baby in the family. Everybody else had cars. Hell they had careers and Joanne even had a husband. I spent a good chunk of my summer at that house, dinking around and getting it back in shape. The car was my payment."

"Did Sandrine stay there with you?"

He chuckled. "No…we wished. But she did fly up again when it was time for me to drive back home."

They began walking again, and he noticed how Rachel relaxed once they passed the bridge, but not before giving it a lingering look. Then a resolute look came over her face. She stopped., but still clung to his arm.

"I've changed my mind. I need to tell you about that date with Finn, because it involves that bridge."

She told him the story of the trip to Nationals in New York, and how she knew Finn wanted to get back together when she saw him with flowers on the bridge, and the dinner with Sardi's and how her heart broke when he said he didn't know how to dream as big as her, and how she thought he wouldn't come to New York, even though it was clear they loved each other, and the romantic walk in the Village, and The Kiss That Missed.

He decided to ask her a question.

"Have you been up on that bridge since Finn died?" He felt her fingers tighten on his arm, and her head bowed.

"No. But I want to."

He turned so that he was facing her. "Why don't you go now? I can go with you, if you need me to, or I can stand here and let you be with him. Or we can keep walking."

She was biting her lip, definitely undergoing an inner dialogue. "You'll stay here until I come back?"

"Of course."

"I won't be long."

"Take as long as you need."

He watched her walk, slowly, up onto the bridge, then lean against the railing when she reached the middle. Nobody else was on the bridge at that moment, and she looked so small there, against the enormity of her sorrow. She remained there for some time, but suddenly he could see her beckoning to him. He hurried up to her. She looked excited.

"Tom! Hold me!" So he did. She was trembling.

"He was _here_," she whispered. "He was here with me." Then a serene look grew on her face. "He was even here with us, for an instant, and it was okay."

They looked out over the pond, orange in the late autumn afternoon, and the ducks, and the people along the shore. She stopped trembling. He felt her warmth.

"Do you love me? "

"Yes," he said.

Her serene expression remained, and she drew closer to him as a duck rose off the pond in an explosion of flapping.

"Good."


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt and Santana were starting to get used to Rachel getting home later at night than she had at the start of the semester; work on _Mount Olympus Blues _was in full swing now, and she and Tom would huddle in the rehearsal room for several hours after regular classes (and their homework) was done. They always took the train home together, and alternated sleeping at each other's place. Santana won the bet over Tom's shaving gear ending up in the bathroom.

Kurt liked how more lively Rachel seemed. One Saturday morning, Kurt found Rachel up early while Tom was still asleep. He sat with her on the couch drinking coffee.

"He stayed up much later than I did, revising dialogue on his laptop. I think he went to sleep around five."

"He's intense when he gets into 'compose-mode', isn't he? " Kurt noted. She nodded.

"Yeah, he gets this 'thousand-yard' smile on his face. It gives me goosebumps, because that usually means he's solved some problem or issue with what he's working on." She sipped her coffee, and placed a hand on his arm. "And he's really, really good. I've never seen anything like it."

This was no love-struck idolization, Kurt knew. He had come by one night to their rehearsal room after working late himself, and heard Rachel singing one of the in-progress songs from the musical, and it made his hair stand on-end. The music was complex, certainly no Rogers and Hammerstein; Rachel had transformed herself into a maniacal woman unable to take no for an answer. Tom sang Herman's part, giving it adequate but hardly stellar justice. He beamed in delight when he saw Kurt.

"Can you give this a try, Kurt? I know it's a bit lower than you're used to going, but maybe you can give it more quality tone than I can, you know?"

Kurt wasn't used to such open generosity coming from a fellow NYADA student, so, flattered, he gave it a few runs, much to Rachel's delight, especially when they sang together at the end. Their musical chemistry impressed Tom.

"You know," he said, "If I were to bring the register for Herman's part up a notch or two, your voice would be a perfect fit." He noted a few things on a music sheet. "Are you going to be auditioning for it? You will be a senior next year, after all."

Kurt had planned to audition and surprise Rachel. He nodded, shyly. "But why don't we try it in the higher register next time, and see if it still works? I mean, Rachel won't be singing opposite me, and she always brings out my best."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "Of course…" He made a few more notes. As it turned out, the changes didn't work, but not through lack of trying on Tom's part, which Kurt truly appreciated.

Sitting on the couch with Rachel now, Kurt could see how good Tom was for her. She seemed to draw quiet strength from the relationship, unlike the schoolgirl excess she showed over Brody Weston, and the light in her eyes when she talked about Tom revealed far more respect and admiration. Even the sex seemed to be good in a way Brody could never reach, as talented in the sack as he was; compared to Tom, Brody may have been a mile wide in technique, but he was only an inch deep emotionally.

"Tom's a _man_, Kurt," she had summed up, succinctly.

"You are looking so beautiful these days, Rachel dear," Kurt told her. "Must be all that beauty sleep." She giggled when he arched his eyebrows.

"I like sleeping with him, Kurt," she said, honestly. "It's restful as well as…exciting." She winked.

"I'm glad. You look happy."

"I am happy." Then she lowered her voice and took his hand.

"He loves me."

"I know he does. You can see it in his face. Did he tell you?" She nodded, and Kurt was relieved to see that she wasn't distressed by that fact at all. So he asked her the question:

"Do you love him?"

He expected Rachel to freeze up and withdraw at the sheer magnitude of such an admission. That didn't happen. Instead, a truly serene look came over her face.

"I think so, Kurt," she said. "I'm working it out with Finn, in my prayers, because he is so tightly entwined in all of this. I want to be sure I can love Tom the way he deserves, and still keep and honor Finn in my heart. And you know what?" A sweet, happy smile. "I think the time has come when I can."

He felt an ache in his chest, missing his brother and glad at Rachel's determination to honor him. It felt right for her to finally fall in love with somebody as decent as Tom Foley, and to also make sure her first love would never be forgotten. Kurt so desperately wanted a happy ending. He took her in his arms for a hug.

"He's coming to Lima for Thanksgiving with me, to meet my dads. Does my invitation to come over your house for dessert still stand? And can I bring him? I—I'd like him to meet Carole, if she's willing." Then her adorable little grin: "It may be the only football he gets to watch, knowing my dads."

"I'm sure it will be fine. My dad could use someone to watch the game with that actually knows the rules."

He decided to spare Rachel having to ask the question. "Santana and I have already talked about this, and we want you to know that if Tom wanted to move in with us, we'd be cool with it."

"You would?" Her surprise nearly broke his heart. Kurt knew Rachel regretted the way she had shoehorned Brody in on them the way she did.

"Yes, we would. He is very considerate, does his share of the dishes after meals, and spares us from seeing his naked ass in the living room." Then he touched her cheek. "And he adores you and treats you accordingly. That goes a long way in our book."

"He does have a nice ass, though."

Kurt laughed.

**XXXxxx **

"Hi, Carole? This is Rachel."

"Rachel! Oh honey, it's so good to hear your voice! How are you?"

She and Carole had spoken on-and-off, since Finn's death, and she had been invited for dessert at Thanksgiving the year before. Rachel had Thanksgiving off from the show, but had to fly immediately back for a 2pm performance the next day. She went over to the house, but everything was still raw. The one thing good was, she and Carole went into another room and just cried together, and told each other Finn stories.

"I'm good…very good, in fact."

"Kurt says you're finally seeing someone…Tom, is it?"

Relieved at not having to bring Tom up herself, Rachel relaxed.

"Yes, I am. He's wonderful, and…he's also the reason I'm calling you."

There was quiet on the other end, and Rachel wondered if she should have called. But that was dispelled immediately:

"Please don't think you have to ask my permission to love again." Carole's voice was soft, motherly.

She swallowed hard, because, deep down, Rachel did think she somehow needed Carole's blessing.

"I—I appreciate that."

"Good. But you and I should talk about him."

"We should?"

"Honey, I've been where you are now. I bet I've had the same thoughts and doubts you're having, too. So please, let's arrange some time. You are coming over on Thanksgiving for dessert, right?"

"Yes, I'd love to. What I wanted to know was if I could bring Tom with me for you to meet."

"That would be wonderful," Carole replied without hesitation. "And, if you like, maybe just you and I can go see Finn the next day. What do you think?"

"I'd like that."

"Good! We'll see you soon!"

She hung up, feeling hopeful.

**XXXxxxx **

Hiram and Leroy Berry insisted on playing the "name that standard" game with Tom, and she just _knew_ he was letting them win. She watched her dads standing by the piano as Tom sent up challenge after challenge, and them singing away, and smiled. They were falling under his spell, just like she had.

They had met all of the previous men in her life. They had loved Finn, of course, but she thought it was more because she loved him so much. His unselfish nature, though, deeply moved them , especially when he proved he was willing to give her up like he did. But they had little in common with him, other than her. They liked Jesse as well, but she thought that was more due to the fact his projected persona was so much like them. She thought back fondly on Jesse sometimes, if only because he was such a charming drama queen, and because she found out what he had said to Carmen on her behalf. Finn, however, could never bring himself to forgive Jesse for his brutal betrayal of her in that parking lot, which was unusual, because Finn otherwise was a forgiving soul, considering how he treated Quinn and Puck. Jesse had sent her a kind, generous, hand-written letter from California, when he found out Finn had passed away. Her dads even met Brody once, but didn't seem impressed, and when they found out he was out of the picture (she never told them _why_), they hardly commented at all.

"All right, son," Hiram said, glancing at LeRoy, "We appreciate your trying to make a good impression by going easy on us. Mission accomplished: we like you. Now it's time to get serious, okay?" He refilled Tom's champagne glass.

Tom looked over at her, and she shrugged. "You heard them yourself."

"Okay, sir." He cracked his knuckles for effect. "Here goes." Her dads' brows furrowed in concentration, making her laugh.

Tom started playing a very quick, jazzy melody, that darted about like a bee. Her dads immediately hunched over, eyes squinting, bobbing to the beat. LeRoy started humming it, then snapped his fingers. "I know this! I Know This!" He crowed.

Tom peered at him over his glasses as he played. Hiram triumphantly looked at LeRoy. "Well, what is it?" But LeRoy was still snapping his fingers and humming. "I know this…I know this…it's…Billie Holiday, right, Billie Holiday?"

"Don't look at me," Tom said, grinning evilly, "You guys have to name the song, not who might or might not have sung it." He continued playing.

Hiram was getting desperate, but suddenly a light went on, and he started snapping his fingers, too. "It's Ella! Not Billie, LeRoy, remember?" And he started singing:

_**Somewhere there's music**_

_**How near, how far**_

_**Somewhere there's heaven**_

_**It's where you are**_

_**The darkest night would shine**_

_**If you would come to me soon**_

_**Until you will, how still my heart**_

_**How high the moon**_

LeRoy jumped up and down. "Yes! 'How High the Moon', right?"

Tom stopped, and shook his head. "Yep." He looked at Rachel, who was clapping for them, caught up in utter delight. "Thought I had you with that one."

She ran over and hugged her dads. "You guys are awesome!"

A buzzer went off in the kitchen. Hiram looked at his husband. "Time to eat!" he said. "But as we serve it up, _Rachela,_ why don't you sing one of the songs from Tom's musical? "

"Okay…how about 'I Thought I Was Bored'?" she asked. Tom nodded, and kissed her when her dads were out of the room.

**XXXxxxxx **

"Ready?" she asked, as they rang Burt and Carole's doorbell.

"Yep. Are you okay?" Tom held her hand tightly.

"I'll be fine."

The door opened, and Carole Hudson-Hummel beamed at them.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" she said, and ushered them into the hall. She hugged Rachel tightly. "So good to see you, honey."

"You too. Carole, this is Tom Foley." He started to extend his hand but Carole hugged him tightly too. "I'm thrilled to meet you, Tom."

They walked into the living room, and Rachel had to try and keep calm at the familiar sights, especially the picture of Finn in his graduation gown on the wall. Her heart leaped into her throat when Tom paused in front of it, and seemed to give a tiny bow of the head before turning back to her.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"Nothing," he said, as a man in a flannel shirt and jeans stood up, and hugged Rachel fiercely. "Happy Thanksgiving, Rachel." He then extended his hand. "I'm Burt Hummel. You must be Tom."

"Yes, sir. I'm honored. "

"Burt, not 'sir'. And sit down. As you can see, I'm the only one watching the game. Rachel tells us you're a football fan. Can I get you a beer?" He lowered his voice. "She says you like beer—is that true?"

"I'd love one, thanks." Rachel winked at him and made her way to the kitchen with Burt, as Kurt stuck his head out the door and waved. "Hi Tom! We ladies are going to finish up the dessert and bring it in. You relax with Dad (Please?)"

Burt came back and handed him a Michelob. "Kurt says you're from California. You a PAC-12 fan? "

Tom sipped and nodded. "I pretty much have to be. My dad went to UC Berkeley, my brothers are UCLA grads, and my sister broke my dad's heart and went to Stanford."

Burt whistled. "I bet that makes for some tense moments during the Big Game."

"I'll say."

"What about your mom? She's a doctor too, right?"

"Yep. University of Paris. So we only have to deal with her during the World Cup and the French Open. What about you?"

Burt laughed. "Buckeyes all the way, baby."

Tom nodded. "They sure kicked the Bruins' asses last week."

Burt settled back into his armchair. "Yeah, that was brutal. This game, on the other hand…" Nebraska was butting heads with Michigan, 3-3.

"It's the fourth quarter? And only 3-3? What the hell?" Tom and Burt drifted into guy stuff as Rachel watched from the door, smiling.

"I'm so glad you brought him, Rachel," Carole said. "He loves Kurt, but he hates being the only football fan in the house. I made some pumpkin pie from scratch this year. I thought you and I could eat ours on the deck with our coffee. It's not too cold yet.'

"I'd love to. But what about Kurt?"

"I told him to hang out with his father and Tom. He understood."

It was perfect outside. The two women sat down. Rachel stared at the stately oak tree in the yard. It hadn't lost its leaves yet, and loomed, etched against the fading sky. She couldn't help but remember the times lying under it with him, back before life took such a cruel turn.

"You'll never forget him, dear."

"I know," Rachel sipped some coffee so as not to cry.

"But the time comes when he won't be the first thing you think of in the morning, anymore, and he won't be the person you go to over every little thing. I imagine that's happened to you already." Carole was staring at the oak now. "When Chris died, I didn't know if I'd survive it. But I had Finn to raise, and I'm sure he told you how we became this little duo against the world."

"Yeah, he did."

"Being Finn's mother and having to raise him alone was like your show was to you—something to focus on instead of the pain." Rachel thought about what Tom had said about that, and again was struck by his empathy.

"One day, though, something happens. You meet someone who makes you realize there's no limit to how much love you can feel. Burt and I talk about that all of the time. He loves Mary as much now as he ever did, and yet he loves me too, just as much, because it was important to him to live his life to the fullest, to honor her."

Rachel nodded. "My rabbi said pretty much the same thing. I just want you to know that the connection Tom and I have is much like the one I had with Finn. We loved creating art together—it made us feel more alive. Tom makes me feel alive like I did with Finn."

"Then you are definitely honoring my son, Rachel." They sat for a moment in silence.

"Do you love Tom?"

She was able to express it now, nodding, tears flowing instead of words, and Carole hugged her close.

"Good."

**XXXxxxx **

He lay at the top of a grassy slope, facing West, beneath a young oak, which gave fine shade in the summer. Now the morning breeze carried a chill, scattering the leaves that lay on the well-tended grass that was turning brown, preparing for its winter sleep. The inscription on his headstone was as simple and direct as he had been:

_**Finnegan Christopher Hudson **_

_**September 15**__**th**__**, 1994 – March 20**__**th**__**, 2013**_

_**Beloved Son**_

Two women, bundled against the brisk air, worked their way up the gentle rise towards him. One carried fresh flowers, the bright colors in stark contrast to the autumn brown. The other, much smaller, bore an envelope. They knelt at his side.

He knew and loved both of them. One he had known since his very first breath, and the other he had pledged the rest of his life, once. They were trying to talk to him, but the words were drowned out by the overwhelming love he felt from them. That was all that mattered now to him, anyway, to be loved and remembered. And all he wanted for them was happiness, and he hoped they could sense that.

Rachel was wearing the red coat that he remembered liking so much. And now she chanted that prayer, in Hebrew, the one that always gave him such peace, and laid an envelope down. It's that poem I wrote for you, she told him. He could feel her happiness over finding Tom, and he wished both of them well, hoping she could feel that, too.

He tried soothing his mother, because the pain of outliving her child could never truly fade.

They told stories about him to each other as the sun rose higher in the sky, and he knew they felt better for coming here, which made him glad. Eventually, they got up, brushed the grass from their clothes, and said goodbye until next time, and that they loved him. He wished they could have stayed a little longer.

And when they were gone, he returned to his dreams, dreams of dancing and singing on a stage with a dark-haired girl. Forever.

**A/N: lyrics are from "How High the Moon", written by Nancy Hamilton and Morgan Lewis **


	14. Chapter 14

Rachel noticed something off about Tom on the plane ride home on the Saturday. He looked exhausted, and tried to sleep on the plane. And he went to bed almost immediately when they got to the loft.

"I hope he isn't coming down with something," Rachel worried. Kurt shrugged his shoulders and made some coffee for her, Santana and himself.

"Did something happen?" Santana wondered. "Is he upset?"

"I don't know. On Friday, Carole and I went to see Finn, and my dads said he spent the whole time at the piano, playing and scribbling, as if he was in hyperdrive." She stopped, as something occurred to her. "He was looking tired the rest of that day, too, come to think of it." Then she smiled, sadly.

Later, when the others had gone to bed, Rachel sat alone on the couch. Instinctively, she knew what was going on, and castigated herself for not anticipating it. Her gratitude at his acceptance of her situation, and the complexity of her emotions made it easy to overlook what it must be like for him. Going to Lima, so steeped in Finn's memory and presence, where everyone knew and had loved Finn so much, couldn't have been easy. She remembered him standing in front of Finn's portrait, and wondered now what he had actually been thinking. He had said he didn't want to take Finn's place, but what she knew of Tom by now told her that he wouldn't want to be second to Finn in her heart, either: he was asking to be equal. And, to her infinite relief, she was beginning to feel that it was how she truly felt.

There was a time when that would have been impossible for her, beyond even her imagination. But not now. The past two years had taught Rachel that she couldn't allow herself to think she could live off Finn's memory forever—that was for tragic romance novels, full of nunneries for the bereaved heroines to go and spend the rest of their lives. She wanted to live, to have babies, a family, as well as success on stage. And she wanted to honor Finn's memory by honoring whomever she came to love by granting him an equal place in her heart. She had to think that's what Finn wanted for her, too.

The next morning, Tom awoke to find Rachel's deep brown eyes gazing at him.

"Hi," he said, smiling.

"Hi yourself," she replied, and began stroking his flank, then kissed him.

He looked rested to her now.

"Will you let me say something to you, even if you feel compelled to interrupt?"

He chuckled. "Sure."

"You've given your heart to me, and I consider that a sacred trust. But I think I may have taken it for granted over Thanksgiving." He started to protest but she put a finger to his lips. She smiled sweetly at him. "You've been so accepting of me and my situation, you make it look so easy, but I know how hard you work to be that way. I just lost sight of that for a while. I need to tell—and show you- that I took what you said about not wanting to take Finn's place seriously, and just want you to know that I have no intention of making you second to Finn in my eyes, nor my heart."

He gently removed her finger from his lips.

"Nor do I want to be ahead of him, either."

She smiled and nodded. "I just wanted to reassure you."

He pulled her close to him, and laid her head upon his chest. "Thank you for that. It did get a bit…overwhelming at times—much more than I thought it would be." He stroked her hair. "But it showed me how much he was loved, and helped me understand you better."

"He was a tall man, and threw a huge shadow," she said. "You would have liked him, and he certainly would have liked you. It would have been an epic bromance."

They were about to make love when they heard Kurt moving about, and, giggling quietly, decided to get up and make breakfast. She winked at Kurt, and he looked relieved.

"May I make breakfast?" Tom asked.

"Will it have meat? Please say it will involve meat!" Santana's voice floated out from her room.

Rachel rolled her eyes. Tom laughed.

"Do you have any?" he asked, heading towards the refrigerator.

"Beats me. Kurt and Rachel do most of the shopping."

He looked inside. Eggs. Good. Oooh…a polish sausage. That would work. "Will polish sausage do with your eggs, Santana?"

"That sounds pretty ."

"Okay, and oh! Cherry tomatoes!"

"Huh?" All three roommates asked, almost simultaneously.

"Trust me! Rachel, what about you? I can make you a meatless omelette, if you like."

"I'll try whatever you make," she said softly.

"What was that?" Santana yelled.

Tom browned up the sausage in a little olive oil, then added the eggs, scrambling everything up, and then, a few minutes before he was done, added the tomatoes. Rachel was on toast duty, and Kurt made the coffee. The result was delicious. Rachel gave Tom her sausage, but devoured the rest, much to Kurt's satisfaction.

It was a lazy morning, and around noon, after Kurt and Santana headed out with some friends, Rachel sat Tom down on the couch with the TV remote. "I did some research. Your favorite football team is playing the New York Giants today. Enjoy. Then you're taking a nap, while I do some grocery shopping for dinner." She kissed him. "I want to show you that I meant what I said this morning."

"By cooking dinner?" He looked confused.

"You'll see, baby," she winked.

She joined him on the couch with some lunch-like snacks and a few beers to watch the San Francisco 49ers shellac the Giants at The Meadowlands. The game itself may not have been her cup of tea, but she knew the rules, thanks to Finn's patient tutelage. She loved that Tom liked football, if only to reinforce her contention that he and Finn would have liked each other. She also adored the fact that, for such a frighteningly talented musician, he was so _normal_ in other respects.

It was well into the fourth quarter and the Giants were fatally behind, 31 -3. She excused herself to the bathroom. He was asleep when she returned, a smile on his face. Rachel tenderly covered him with a blanket, then got ready to leave for the store.

She couldn't resist bending down and kissing him on the cheek on the way out.

**XXXXxxxxx **

He awoke to the most wonderful smell wafting his way from the kitchen. Rachel, wearing an apron covered with brightly colored dancing vegetables, was standing at the stove.

She was frying chicken.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. "My God," he murmured—are those garlic mashed potatoes too?"

She smiled and nodded, leaning her head back and rubbing him with her cheek. "Go sit at the table and keep me company. It's almost done."

She had even set the table for two, with fresh flowers.

"You aren't just going to have potatoes and green beans for yourself, are you?"

"No more questions." The last two pieces of chicken made it on the plate, and she brought it over, with the potatoes and green beans in bowls. Then she went to the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of rosé sparkling wine, opened it, and poured out two glasses.

"Kurt loves this stuff," she said, "And I was delighted when I texted your mother, asking for a wine to pair with fried chicken, and she suggested this."

"You texted Mom?" He was amazed. She looked almost apologetic. "She seems to be the wine expert, remember." Tom chuckled. "Now help yourself," Rachel ordered. He took a breast and a leg, and raised his eyebrows when she took a breast as well, plus a thigh.

"I'm betting there's a story behind this," he said, adding potatoes and green beans, as she did the same.

"And you'd be right." Rachel wore a soft smile. "Soon after I started dating Finn, his mother invited me over for a family dinner. I was touched that she made me a special vegetarian dish, but when she told me that the fried chicken she was serving everyone else was Finn's favorite food, I asked if I could try it." She gave a short laugh. "Everyone but Carole was shocked when I ate it all and went back for seconds."

Tom laughed too, imagining the scene.

"She said no human alive could resist her fried chicken, which was from a recipe that had been handed down in her family since before the Civil War."

"Wow."

"Yeah. When Finn and I became engaged, she taught me how to make it." Rachel swallowed hard. "I planned on making it for the first meal I ever cooked as a married woman."

He smiled, admiring how she managed to keep her composure. She was smiling genuinely, though, and looking directly at him.

"But now I just want to serve it to the man I love."

It came out easily, naturally, and he could see joy in her eyes as she spoke. His heart beat faster than he had ever felt it beat before.

Not taking his eyes off her, he took a bite from the drumstick, chewing slowly, and sighed.

"I'll never know if it's Carole's recipe or the fact that you love me that makes this taste so good," he said. "Good God. It's not greasy at all."

"I can't tell you the secret," Rachel said, giggling, "just in case you're captured by Yankees and they try torturing it out of you."

They both just started laughing, because it was taking everything to focus on the meal instead of what had just happened. But the power of Carole's fried chicken held them in thrall, as Tom watched in dazed amazement at the sight of Rachel Berry actually going for seconds. But it was just delaying the inevitable, as Santana and Kurt found out when they came home to a barely-touched over mess, and the sounds of two rejoicing souls coming from the bedroom.

Kurt rolled his eyes and groaned, while Santana went straight to the refrigerator, taking out a leftover piece of chicken.

"I'll have what they had," she said, with a bite and a wink.

XXXxxx

Santana and Kurt had eventually gone to bed; it was a school night, after all. And Tom, while refreshed from his nap, had enthusiastically helped Rachel go for seconds on sex as well, but now dozed lightly in her arms. She was free to lie, content and warm, alone with her thoughts.

She kissed Tom's eyes gently, then said her prayer for Finn, enjoying the fact she could hold both of them in her heart equally now. The romance novels got it wrong, way wrong. She felt at that moment that she could love the world, with a universe to spare. And she thanked the man who had first shown her how to love. And it comforted her to think that her children would still carry something of Finn in them, even if it wasn't his DNA: that her love for them owed a lot to a man who never knew them and whom they would never meet, and who, like their father, held their mother's heart in the palm of his hand.

Weariness finally overcame her, and she cuddled in close to the man who loved her in this world, and whom she loved in return. She remembered she had one more thing to do, however, one more way to show Tom her love for him was real and fully-realized, because she was Rachel Berry, and her true method of communication was her voice.

But that would have to wait until this coming Friday, and after she had a talk with Pasquale.


	15. Chapter 15

Tom awoke to someone shaking his shoulder. It was still dark.

"Tom! Tom!" It was Rachel whispering.

"Yeah? Huh?" he mumbled. He looked at his watch: 1 AM. He shot up in bed.

"Was it the dream? Are you okay?"

"No, baby, relax. I'm okay. I just want to talk."

The adrenaline rush started to slow down, and his heart wasn't racing anymore. He reached for his glasses.

He heard a little sigh.

"I love how you have to have your glasses on to think."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, I woke up and my first thought was that I love you."

She crawled into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. He just listened. Her voice was heavy.

"And I just wished I could talk to Finn and tell him I was happy again."

"You can't just tell him in your prayers?"

"Yes, but then I remember telling him things in person, and how he'd get excited for me…and not being able to do that, well… it just hurts. And I know I've said at times I feel his presence—or at least I think I do, but most times I just wonder if it's the wishful thinking of a broken heart."

He thought he understood, and then she said something that made him ache for her:

"I'm only twenty years old, Tom, but this experience sometimes makes me feel like I'm sixty."

Not knowing what to say, he hugged her close.

"Here's the thing, though: when I tell you about it, as I've just done, I feel better."

"Then feel free to tell me anything, anytime."

She stroked his cheek, and he felt her lips brush his jaw.

"And you'll tell me if it gets too much, right?"

"I will."

"And you'll show me the results of your manic work session at my dads' while I was visiting Finn?"

"They told you about that?"

"Tom, of course they did. They even said the music was 'unusual'."

"Okay, but can it wait a few days? It's not really presentable yet, I want to get some stuff on the musical out of the way, and classes are going to be ridiculous this coming week."

"So it's not from the musical?" She sounded intrigued.

"Not from _Mount Olympus Blues_, no."

She rose up on an elbow.

"Okay, now you've got me really curious."

He smiled in the dark.

"I'll show it to you when it's ready, okay? Until then, please be patient."

"Harumph, Tom Foley." But she kissed him sweetly, and lay back down, rubbing his chest.

He hoped he had helped ease her burden, because he did it gladly.

"I love you, Tom."

"I love you, too." He took off his glasses, and they lay quietly, listening to each other's breathing, and the street noise, until it lulled them to sleep again.

**XXXxxx**

They wanted to know all kinds of things about each other. Favorite book: for Rachel it was Herbert Goldman's biography of Fanny Brice; for Tom, Leonard Bernstein's _Findings_. Tom's favorite movie was _Dr. Strangelove_. They both laughingly admitted to having abandoned their previous favorite foods for Carole's fried chicken, and Rachel crowed to all that she had converted Tom to Pilsner Urquell beer from wine. She joyfully found out that, although he adored her legs and behind, it was her eyes that mesmerized him, just as his had mesmerized her.

Wednesday night, as they walked to the train station, she playfully asked him what his most humiliating moment was during sex.

"Was it the almost threesome?" she asked, winking.

"Oh, no," he said, blushing even now. "Sandrine and I were experimenting at her house. We were both naked, and fully engaged, if you know what I mean, when the door flew open and in walked her little brother with five of his middle-school buddies."

"Oh my god!" Rachel was screaming with laughter.

"His friends had a huge crush on Sandrine, so they really hated me after that."

"I bet," she said, still chuckling, "I think I might have that beat, though."

"Oh? What happened?"

Now it was her turn to blush. "Mr Schuester caught me pleasuring Finn in the auditorium prop room."

"_Nice_. Did he say anything? "

She gave him a decidedly dirty chuckle.

"He just turned scarlet and left, muttering something about bleach." Rachel squeezed Tom's arm as they walked. "He had a hard time looking me straight in the face for weeks."

She told him about living in Ohio, and never having been anywhere else except New York and Chicago. He regaled her with tales of summer trips to Paris and camping in Utah and Arizona, and eating fresh fish in San Francisco, and she made him promise to take her to those places.

"I was thinking," he said on the train, "when we graduate, that we drive from San Clemente to San Francisco, then drive my car cross country to New York. I have a cousin who owns a garage where we can store it."

She kissed a promise out of him to teach her how to drive a stick shift, and he said she could learn in his high school parking lot during the summer. "We can spend the morning with lessons, then go straight to the beach."

Her almost girlish delight at this moved him deeply; he wanted to help Rachel catch up with being her own age again. He wanted to take her to the beach, enjoy the fresh salt air, and bask in the California sun. He wanted, eventually, for them to look for America, as well as succeed on Broadway. He wanted everything for her, and loved Rachel so completely he didn't think that was too much to ask.

And they talked about _Mount Olympus Blues_, how several songs were ready to try and do some run-throughs, and how he was starting to block the second act. So engrossed were they on that subject that they almost missed their stop. Rachel felt as if a cocoon surrounded them when they collaborated artistically; it was as if they were in their own little world.

Contemplating a future seemed much easier now, at least easier than when she had been on her knees in that closet a year ago. Self-confidence seemed to flow out of her, without doubt and sorrow pulling it back. Rachel was beginning to envision how she could live in a post-Finn world, one with an actual possibility of happiness. Not some compromised happiness, tempered forever by loss, but one infinitely richer, with memories of what she had with Finn brought together with the life she was starting to hope for with Tom, and their artistic partnership.

She didn't feel compelled to look back anymore.

**XXXXxxxx **

She held the mike in both hands, standing by the piano. Head slightly bowed, in that simple blue dress, she looked even smaller up there, under those ridiculously garish lights. Santana sat between him and Kurt, and held his hand tightly. The normally raucous crowd sensed her mood somehow, and quieted down when she looked up, tranquil, and so beautiful he felt his chest hurt.

"I've loved two men in my life," she began. "I lost one several years ago to a car accident." The lump in her throat made her swallow. "At the time I thought my life was over, that I'd never have a future, or love again." Her tranquil, almost dreamy expression remained. "That's easy to feel when you love someone as much as I loved Finn Hudson. I thought all the love I could ever feel had been invested in him, and lost when he was taken away from me."

The room was silent.

"But I was wrong. It turned out I knew very little about love, or memory, or the true meaning of loss. It took time, good friends," she looked over at Santana and Kurt fondly, "and meeting someone sensitive enough to show me that my capacity for love actually knew no limits." He could feel those dark eyes boring into his own. "Tom, thanks for that. Thanks for being part of a happiness I never thought I would feel again." He simply nodded, smiling.

"I'd like to dedicate this song to both Finn and Tom. The lyrics aren't autobiographical, but the final sentiment, about being able to look forward, is what I think Finn would want, and what Tom deserves. Please enjoy."

She nodded to Pasquale, and the room was filled with a gentle, pensive melody, slow, meditative, melancholy. It took each person in the room away to an armchair alone, late at night, lost in thought. Then Rachel entered, caressing each syllable, tempering the sadness with wisdom:

_**It was so right, it was so wrong**_

_**Almost at the same time**_

_**The pain and ache a heart can take**_

_**No one really knows **_

_**When the memories cling and keep you there**_

_**Till you no longer care**_

_**And you can let go now**_

Pasquale played a little run, and she mentally prayed to Finn, telling him that she did care, would always care.

_**It's wrong for me to cling to you**_

_**Somehow I just needed time**_

_**From what was to be-it's not like me**_

_**To hold somebody down**_

_**But I was tossed high by love**_

_**I almost never came down**_

She went into the stratosphere with those last two lines, remembering everything.

_**Only to land here**_

_**Where love's no longer bound**_

_**Where I'm no longer bound**_

As she had discussed with Pasquale, they held off going into the last line for a half beat, and Rachel looked first upwards, then directly at Tom, before softly singing:

_**And I can let go now**_

She bowed her head, and for a second or two, there was only the sound of Pasquale's last chords, fading away. And when she looked up, the applause began, and continued as she thanked Pasquale, made her way to her table, and into Tom's arms.

He still resonated from the haunting power of her voice, that maddeningly perfect instrument that held him, spellbound. It had held one other man the same way, he knew, and had inspired him to want to be better.

Tom wanted, more than anything now, to be better, too: to give her and her voice the kind of music with which she would conquer the world, as she had conquered his heart.

**A/N: lyrics are from "I Can Let Go Now", by Michael McDonald. An exquisite little gem of a song. **


	16. Chapter 16

They spent that night at Tom's place, taking advantage of Toby's absence to enjoy each other, body and soul. They awoke, together, refreshed and relaxed.

"Stay here," Tom said, slipping out of bed, "I'll bring us back some coffee."

Rachel lay back and sighed in contentment. She had prepared ahead and completed all her school work in order to spend this Saturday with him. Pulling the covers up to her neck, the warmth made her feel luxuriously lazy, as she heard the grinder whining from the kitchen. She almost didn't recognize herself. In high school, her schedule had seemed almost manic; the idea of just lazing in bed (especially naked and with a man) would have been inconceivable. She fondly remembered the few times she and Finn had been able to spend the night together in Lima during high school, and how rushed they always were to avoid being caught the morning after. The same went for Chicago when they bribed their hotel roomies with vending machine candy and celebrated their win together. Even with Brody, Rachel didn't spend any time lazing around. She had always envisioned reserving lazy weekend mornings for her and Finn as the reward for everything they went through to get here together. She wanted them for Tom as well, especially after seeing how intense he could get when composing. Balance was a thing Rachel Berry had learned to respect.

Pondering her new relationship, Rachel appreciated the differences Tom brought to the table, making it special, making it _their own_. There were the physical differences, of course:

Take height, for instance. Tom was a full seven inches shorter than Finn; even Brody had two inches on him. Remembering how she had adored hers and Finn's height difference didn't hurt anymore, but had become part of her past that she could look back on, fondly. In fact, she had distinctly enjoyed getting used to Tom's relatively compact size. He preferred being clean-shaven at all times, but Rachel had been toying with the idea of asking him to try the stubbly look. For now she just luxuriated at the feel of his smooth face. And then there was the hair, which tumbled over the tops of his ears in a gloriously curly, light-brown mop. Tom didn't possess the athlete's physicality Finn brought to the relationship, nor the dancer's power and flexibility of Brody (if one could get Rachel in the mood to admit it). Yet he was as tender with her as Finn was, just more deliberate and laid back.

Tom also possessed a level of sophistication that neither Finn nor Brody had. That gave him a charm she found utterly irresistible, especially since it came free of self-absorption. She had adored Finn's simple decency, and his love of music, too, but also loved how Tom challenged her intellectually without being condescending. His music pushed her to her vocal limits, much like the Britten did, and they both enjoyed the little games like "name that standard". One Sunday morning at his place they were reading together on his couch, and he had some classical music playing on the iPod. Rachel asked him about one piece with which she was completely unfamiliar.

"Who wrote this?" she asked.

"You can figure it out," he said, not looking up.

"No, I can't," she said. "I have no idea who this is."

"Are you sure?" This time he was looking at her slyly over his glasses. She realized he was challenging her to figure it out.

"Okay, Foley, you're on," she said, returning his grin. "Let's see…it's a concerto, a cello concerto by the sound of it."

He put down his book and nodded. "Correct."

She listened very carefully now.

"It's in E-flat, too…E-Flat major."

"Yep."

The music was very quick, fiendishly difficult to play in parts for the soloist, and sounded nothing like anything composers in Bach's, Mozart's or Beethoven's times would have written.

"Okay… it definitely sounds modern, 20th Century at least."

He nodded again. She listened closer.

"It's not American. Definitely European… but the melodies don't sound Western European, as you'd hear in Britain or France, like with Elgar or Ravel, or Debussy. It isn't German, either, I'm guessing." So it was Eastern European. She had heard Bartok and Janacek in class, so it probably wasn't Hungarian or Czech. That left one option, at least from her experience, and she trusted Tom not to be tricking her with the music of some impossibly obscure Bulgarian or Pole.

"Russian. I'm going with Russian…" Did he just look proud of her? Encouraged, she sorted through the 20th Century Russian composers she knew. Stravinsky? Maybe. But did he write any concertos? She didn't think so. Prokofiev? Rachmaninoff? It didn't sound like either…the music was too angular and spare. That left…she struggled to remember from her music appreciation class…there was one more name she was forgetting. She looked over to Tom, who, instead of gloating, was pretending to return to his book. The Dancing Cranes were no help, either. Wait…there was one Soviet era composer that she remembered from class, who included a musical signature, an equivalent to parts of his name, in lots of his pieces. She looked back at the cranes.

"'D'", she said. Tom looked up mildly. "His first name began with 'D'". Then she remembered…the signature was a musical cryptogram, for the letters "DSch".

"It's 'Dimitri'," she announced triumphantly. "'Dimitri Shostakovich', right?"

Tom looked as if he had no doubt whatsoever.

"I told you you'd figure it out."

Sometimes he made her feel ten feet tall.

He had returned with the coffee and slipped into bed beside her.

"Mmmmm. Thank you, baby," she purred. It was the Kenyan AA. "So…what's on the agenda besides lolling about naked with you?"

He put his cup down and pulled her towards him, kissing deeply and sliding one hand between her thighs.

"I mean," she gasped, pulling her lips away," besides this?"

"I thought we'd spend the day strolling around Ridgewood, then I want to take you to dinner."

"Where?"

"Can I leave that a secret?"

"Oh, _okay,_ if you must." She already knew. The hostess at Sardi's had called _her_ number yesterday to confirm the reservation _he_ had made for "Ms Rachel Berry". During her _Funny Girl_ stint, she had eaten there many times, and the hostess had her number on a list, forgetting to use the number Tom had left. "I'm going to act surprised, okay?" she told her.

She wore a gorgeous short red dress and heels with her scarlet coat, and he chose the black blazer and dark trousers, with an open white shirt. He carried along an old ,soft leather satchel she had seen him occasionally use to carry music and notebooks. In the town car he had ordered, she asked him what was in the satchel.

"Never you mind, young lady." The Sphinx itself couldn't have appeared more inscrutable. But in the car with her, he grew affectionate, and they made out ridiculously over the Williamsburg Bridge. His touch thrilled her, especially as his hand slid up her thigh and the expensive silky black tights she wore. She almost told the driver not to stop when he pulled up in front of Sardi's.

Some paparazzi buzzed around the door—waiting, apparently, for Sutton Foster to arrive to celebrate her new show. They recognized Rachel, of course, and Tom saw firsthand how smooth and gracious she was with them. Inevitably, someone asked her who she was with. His heart clenched when she looked at the photographer as if he were clueless.

"This is the composer Tom Foley, of course." Then she gave Tom an adoring look, clutching his arm as the man slowly started to nod, remembering…something. He began feverishly snapping several more shots as they entered the restaurant.

"He'll know who you are soon enough, baby," she promised, fiercely.

"Do you want your usual, Ms Berry?" the hostess asked.

"Yes, please," Rachel said, and they were led to a booth. "Patti LuPone was sitting here when Finn brought me that first time," she told him; she had never been able to sit at _that_ table. She didn't see anyone familiar, but that didn't surprise her: it was early on a Saturday night.

The waiter came and they placed their orders: Rachel decided on the Spinach Canneloni au Gratin ("It's delicious!), while Tom asked for the pork chops. The wait was filled with her tales of the celebrities she met here, and how at first she was shy and withdrawn ("Understandable," Tom pointed out), but her male lead Art Fonseca and understudy Talia Gillerman lovingly helped ease her into the spotlight, giving her tips on paparazzi-handling and introducing her to the right people. She would always be grateful for the way they refused to let her give in to the sometimes overwhelming urge to just drag herself home and cry every night during those first few awful months.

"They would take me here for what they called 'therapy'," she said. "When I got the part, everyone assumed I'd be full of diva-tude, being so young and all. But honestly, Tom, I may have been a diva in high school, and even at NYADA for a while, but the responsibilities of being Fanny Brice and Finn's death crushed any of that out of me. I kind of went in the opposite direction, and Art and Talia were determined to help me enjoy the perks of being a Broadway star."

"Such as?" Tom raised his eyebrows.

Rachel stopped, realizing she had been dominating the conversation when the food arrived and Tom had barely said anything.

"No, continue, really—I'm loving this," he said. So she told him the story of how Talia and Art had dropped a hint that the leads of _Funny Girl_ were going to be at Sardi's for a late supper, and watched how the paparazzi fawned over Rachel as this meteoric young star who came from Nowheresville on a train, to leading a major Broadway production at the age of eighteen.

"Didn't the attention get rough at times?" Tom asked. "I mean, the press can be brutal."

She smiled. "No… I guess my lack of diva-tude paid off, because I hadn't really acquired any enemies. I acquired something that more seasoned stars often envy—a reputation for being easy to work with. I was just so grateful to be working at what I always wanted to do my whole life, and determined to make Finn proud of me, that I never fell into really bad habits." Then a shadow passed over her face. "I also didn't have a scandalous personal life for them to exploit. I wasn't out getting drunk or partying excessively, and didn't have a boyfriend. In fact, one magazine decided the fact I wasn't dating was because I was a closeted lesbian, and tried to make something of it. My dads, of course being lawyers and Broadway fanatics, know some industry lawyers, and they straightened that out quickly. But overall," her smile returned, "I was left pretty much alone to work and grieve…" She took his hands in hers. "…and heal."

Dessert was served—a tiramisu cake with espresso vanilla sauce, and she finally couldn't bear it any longer, demanding to see what was in the satchel. Tom gave her a surprisingly muted and tender look, and reached inside, pulling out a binder similar to the one he showed her before for _Mount Olympus Blues_.

"Okay, but let me preface it by saying, I know we had talked about trying to get _Mount Olympus Blues_ produced right after we graduate…"

"Yes…isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, but over Thanksgiving I had an idea for something else, something...well, I just want you to look at it first."

"So this was what you were working on at my dads'?" He nodded. She took the notebook. The cover read: _Don't Look Back_. Her mouth suddenly went dry.

"A new musical?" She almost dreaded to open it, but did. There were about ten musical sheets with notations, and a short scribbled summary on a plain piece of paper. Rachel only got through the first sentence:

_**A Re-imagining of the Orpheus Legend. **_

It was going to be about the dream.

"Tom, you don't expect me to recreate my dream on stage, do you? " She felt cold, and awful, because she didn't know how to tell him there was no way she could ever do that, and what was he thinking, anyway? Tears filled her eyes and she couldn't see him reach across to caress her cheek. He took the notebook out of her hand.

"No, no, baby, it's a _re-imagining_ of the legend. Yes, you play Orpheus, but in our version," she felt his hand on her face, warm and loving, "you _don't_ look back."

What?

"I don't look back? I don't understand…that would mean…" She made a little choking sound. A handkerchief wiped her tears away, and his gently smiling face swam back into view.

"It means you get to save Finn, not lose him. And you get to do it eight times a week."

Rachel wasn't prepared for the intensity of feeling. She had endured that nightmare so long that the ending was something she took as a given. Yet somehow, the man sitting across from her, in one loving stroke, had found a way for her to change that reality, if only for a moment, on a stage. There would be a different reality, an alternative universe, where he could live again. Something she could _control_. She just looked gratefully at Tom, with more love than she ever thought she could feel again, and took the handkerchief.

"I got my happy ending," he said. "But I know that the only reason I got it, the only reason I have _you_, is because Finn _didn't_ get his. I'm forever in his debt for that. The least I can do is give him that happy ending through my art."

Rachel wondered, for a moment, if she had dreamed this. None of the romantic comedies and romance novels and musicals she knew had prepared her for meeting someone like Tom Foley. He was wired differently than anyone she had ever met, integrated into a background that felt both wise and expansive, and radiated an inner peace. She felt his love relieve her burden. She got up and slid into the seat next to him.

"I'd be honored to work on it, baby. With you," she whispered in his ear, then told him to call the car.

It was a particularly fine night. As the car approached the Williamsburg Bridge, it was filled with the pale light of a glorious gibbous moon, hanging high over New York, high enough to also illuminate the scurrying leaves on a grassy slope in Lima, Ohio. It was an anointment of three souls, destined to be forever entwined, three souls, joined together in love and memory, a consecration of the healing power of art and compassion.

_**Shantih shantih shantih**_

She remembered asking her English teacher in high school what those words meant at the end of T.S Eliot's poem, The _Waste Land. _

"It means the peace that defies all understanding."

There in the car, close to him, she felt a tiny part of that for the first time. Something told her that it wouldn't be the last.

**FIN. **

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone who read and reviewed this story. **


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